


Candyman

by Cumbersome



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Femslash, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:00:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 34,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23688061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cumbersome/pseuds/Cumbersome
Summary: Set after the Second Wizarding War, former Death Eaters are turning up murdered in strange circumstances. Working under Harry Potter, Bellatrix sets out to find the killer. Her path crosses with Hermione. Though the woman's dislike is plain, Bellatrix finds herself drawn to her, finds herself wanting to mend the past and change the future.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Bellatrix Black Lestrange, Hermione Granger/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 199
Kudos: 293





	1. Prologue

In the dark of the manor, Bellatrix Lestrange taps her wand to her teeth. She looks down to the girl puddled at her feet, giving her a thoughtful nudge with the tip of her boot. There is blood on the girl’s face, a thick, sticky pool of it beneath her arm. Her clothes are torn, covered with filth. Her eyes are closed. She could be dead, but for the shallow rise and fall of her chest. 

Eyes narrowed, Bellatrix leans down to examine her handiwork. She gives a smile, licking her lips. 

“Bella.” 

The dark witch whirls at the sound of her name, dancing as she points her wand. Narcissa watches her from the doorway, her lips thin and pressed together. Greyback lurks at her side, his eyes glowing as he leers down at the Mudblood. 

“Let us have the girl,” he says, dragging a wormy tongue over his lips. “You’ve finished with her, haven’t you, witch?”

The way he says “witch,” spitting it from his mouth like an unclean thing. Bellatrix snarls, showing him the small silver knife in her hand.

“Touch her and I’ll take your bollocks, you filthy beast.” 

He barks a laugh, strutting forward. He shows his hands, big, meaty things - designed by nature to smash, to rend and tear. 

“What’s it to you?” He says. “Had your fun. Master says -”

“Shit all!” Bellatrix screams, lurching at him, the point of the knife aimed at his black heart. “You get our leavings, mutt. The girl is mine.” 

Narcissa watches, her pale eyes flickering between her sister and the werewolf. She glances down at the unconscious girl on the floor. 

Her heart thuds, thick in her ears. 

How did we find ourselves here, she wonders, tracing her gaze over the girl’s bloodied form. 

Hermione. Hermione Granger. 

She winces at the name, a hard knot clenching in her stomach, leaving her faint and scrubbing at her lips with the back of her hand. 

She’s only a child. A child fighting an adult’s war. A war started years before she was born. She should be in the sun, her mind at peace, preoccupied by her N.E.W.T.s, planning her summer break. Not bleeding on this filthy floor. Not losing herself to this bastard of a war. 

She thinks of her son and her heart aches, darkness behind her eyes. She looks to her sister. Her beautiful, wild sister. 

It began with her. All of this. Her and her damn Cause. 

“We can’t bloody well stand on the sidelines,” she had said, that feverish glint in her eyes. “We have the potential to change the world, Cissa. Why not do it?” 

Please, she thinks, watching her sister snarl, watching Greyback loom. Don’t kill the girl.

There’s no coming back from it. There’s decades of death on her sister’s hands, but she feels with terrible certainty that this is a moment of reckoning. This is the moment that will define the rest of their lives. This is their survival, their destiny. 

Bellatrix raises her dark eyes, locking gazes with her sister. She smiles, showing the blood on her teeth. 

Don’t worry, her eyes seem to say. Have I ever let you down?

Narcissa shudders. 

And then, the world breaks apart with shouting, Potter and Weasley thundering into the room. Greyback takes advantage of the commotion, edging towards the girl. Surprising herself, Narcissa darts forward, scooping the girl into her arms, pointing her wand at the snarling werewolf’s face. 

“Ohhhh,” he croons. “Care to take me for a ride, witch? Bit old for my taste, but then, beggars and all that.” 

Narcissa stands, holding the girl against her chest. Bellatrix spits, her black eyes darting between Potter and Weasley, twirling her knife around her fingers. 

“I’m going to kill you,” Bellatrix promises the werewolf. “As soon as I’ve spanked these naughty children, I’m going to eat your filthy fucking heart.” 

Greyback growls, eyes burning. 

“Give me the girl, sister.” 

Narcissa hesitates. Bellatrix spares her a quick glance. 

Trust me.

She does. She always has and always will. 

With infinite care, she passes the girl into her sister’s arms. Bellatrix smiles, wrapping an arm around her waist, laying the blade of her knife to the girl’s throat. She takes tiny steps towards Potter and Weasley, sneering. 

And Dobby. Right on time. 

The chandelier comes crashing down, Bellatrix shoving the bleeding girl into Potter’s arms, diving out of the way just in time. Greyback, ever the opportunist, lurches towards the shouting teenagers, teeth bared, hands curled into claws. Bellatrix screams in rage, twisting to throw the knife at the snarling beast. He dodges, howling, and the knife disappears into thin air as the former hostages Apparate. 

There is silence in the aftermath. Narcissa and Bellatrix look at one another, faces pale, chests heaving as they pant. Both think of the knife, fearful of where it had dredged. 

Bellatrix’s face blanks. She looks at the werewolf hissing on the floor. 

“Narcissa, love. I seem to have misplaced my wand. May I borrow yours?” 

Narcissa drops her wand into Bellatrix’s outstretched hand and the dark haired witch smiles.

She points the wand at Greyback. 

“Crucio,” she says. Calmly. But with murderous intent.


	2. Chapter 2

There is a body in the fish tank. 

It is massive, dominating the room. The dead man floats face down, hands limp, eyes wide open and glazed.

Bellatrix Black, former Death Eater, Ministry declared Unspeakable, recognizes the bloated face as one Snicket Snyde. Lips curling, she taps on the glass. Fish scatter, tossing pebbles and sand. 

“Wife’s in the bath,” Brightson comments, nibbling on the nub of his quill. “Strangled.” 

“And this one?” 

“Oh, it’s a nasty one.” He grins when he says it, a gruesome twist of his mouth. “Castrated him, they did. Took the beans and the frank. If you look, you can see dear Frank there, near the crab.” 

Bellatrix leans forward, squinting. “Awfully small, isn’t it?” 

Brightson coughs into his hand. “Well, the average size is between four and six inches.” 

She snorts. “Does that look like four inches to you?” 

“Maybe he was a grower, not a shower.” 

“Right. Well get the tweezers and get the blasted thing out if there. Snyde as well.” 

Brightson bobs his head and shouts, calling in the medi-wizards. Bellatrix gives them room, loudly sipping coffee from a takeaway cup as she stomps up the carpeted stairs leading to the upper level. She finds the bathroom without trouble, nudging the door open with her foot. 

Twila Snyde is in the bathtub. She is fully clothed and the bathtub is dry save for the odd leak dripping from the faucet. Giving the room a quick scan, Bellatrix lets out a sigh and seats herself the loo, throwing her feet up onto the edge of the tub. 

“Contaminating evidence,” Bertrand Tupper would snarl.

Reads too many Muggle crime novels, that one. Too caught up in thoughts of fibers and DNA and trace evidence. Not the Wizarding way, to be sure. One spell or potion could lead to misdirection. No, crimes like this are solved by logic, know how, and good old mental elbow grease. Her boot smudges are the least of her worries. And certainly Mrs. Snyde is beyond caring. 

“Sorry, old girl,” she says. “Condolences on your recently deceased state.” 

She toasts her with lukewarm coffee and smacks her lips, running her gaze along the dead woman’s body. 

Harsh, angry bruises around the flabby flesh of her neck. Tongue swollen and black. Front teeth broken, lips bitten bloody. The limp hands at her sides scratched to hell. 

A fighter. 

Bellatrix remembers her as a ballsy woman, not likely to take shit, and firm in her convictions. Mr. Snyde less so. A bit thick, was he. But rich as sin and easily drawn into the Dark Lord’s web. 

Those were the days, weren’t they? All a keen witch had to do was find the Achilles heel, press her knife to it. Snyde was a weak one. He was too rich to tempt with gold, too dull to wow with glory. But he did so like to think he was important. He was flattered by her attention, eager to please her. Eager to show her what a real wizard he was. By the time he realized what he was agreeing to, it was too late. There was a Dark Mark on his arm and his Ministry connections were hers. 

She is so caught up in her memories that she doesn’t notice the lanky figure pause outside the bathroom door.

A throat clears. 

Harry Potter gives her an uncertain smile, his eyes flickering to the corpse of the former Mrs. Snyde. 

“Black,” he says. 

Polite Potter. Too fucking polite for her taste. 

That first meeting after the Battle of Hogwarts had been an interesting one. Potter screaming, veins bulging in his neck. Weasley shouting, fumbling for his wand. Granger the only one of them with a head. She was terribly calm, but her eyes....Merlin, the hatred in them. The pure, unadulterated rage. 

It took Bellatrix's breath away, left her nostrils flaring and her tongue tingling. That kind of emotion, the intensity of it, was like a hit of pure magic to her brain. 

Bellatrix is not an unreasonable witch. She knows what the trio saw when they looked at her; a phantom, a black eyed, leering monster. The woman who killed their friends, tortured their families. A diabolical twist of black smoke, a smeared red mouth. 

And so, she didn’t kill the boys for raising their wands to her. Instead, she caught their robes on fire with a casual flick of her wand, cackling as she strode away, leaving Granger to smother the flames.

The second time had been more sedate. ‘Course, she was seated on Andromeda’s ragged couch, Teddy pressed against her chest. She had been living there since the Battle, and she was covered in baby sick and half chewed food. Teddy’s sticky baby fingers were in her hair, tugging and twisting.

Potter’s eyes were wary as he looked at her. He lowered himself into a chair across from her, slowly. Placed an ankle on his knee and pursed his lips. 

“An Unspeakable,” he said, like he didn’t believe it. 

She smirked. “You know, the point of “Unspeakable” is you don’t speak of it.” 

“All that time. Even in Azkaban.” 

She shrugged. 

“How did you manage it?” 

“I didn’t. I lost my bloody mind, Potter. Does that make you happy? Is that what you want to hear?” 

He was silent for a long moment. He finally shook his head. “No.” 

The answer surprised her. Blinking, she shifted Teddy in her arms. 

They fell into an easy routine. She didn’t light Potter on fire, and he didn’t try to kill her. Sunday dinners at Dromeda’s were a quiet affair from then on. 

Pass the salt, would you? Ta, you ugly fucker. 

She looks up at him, arching an eyebrow. 

“Potter.” 

She gives him a once over. He is tall, his robes ill fit to his slender frame. All the gold and the world and the wizard won’t go get a decent fitting. And the hair...Merlin, but would it kill him to trim the mop? 

“Heard a rumor you were called in,” he says.

“Mm. Word spreads quick, doesn’t it?” 

“These aren’t the first.” 

“I know. Been watching for a while. Requested the transfer, actually.” 

His eyes narrow. “Why?” 

“Aww, lickle pickle Potter. Where’s the trust?” 

He scoffs. 

“This is my world," she says. "I know these people. I can get into places you can’t, speak to people who would slam doors in your face. You’re the Golden Boy. But, Unspeakable or not, I am Bellatrix Black. My name still has pull in certain circles.” 

“Death Eater circles?” 

“Oh, pish.” 

“That’s what they say, you know. That you started out Light, and went to the bad. That you really are loyal to Voldemort. Even now.” 

“Don’t be so bloody dramatic. Do you want my help or not?” 

He looks at the dead witch in the tub. 

“Snicket Snyde was poisoned.” 

“That before or after they took his knob?” 

“He was alive for the castration. Bled like hell. But the medi-wizards say he died due to acute organ damage. His guts are a mess. ” 

Bellatrix winces. “No magic, then?” 

“Not a drop. Just like the others.” 

She curses. 

Jaw twitching, Harry rubs his hand over his face. 

“Check the poison, will you,” he says. “Brightson has a sample downstairs. Follow up on it and get back to me.” 

Bellatrix bounces up, all smiles and sharp teeth. 

“Bellatrix.” 

She turns at the tone of his voice, his eyes deadly serious as he stares at her. 

“You’ll be familiar with the head of the Herbology Department over at Mungos. Behave yourself.” 

She grins. Waves a dismissive hand as she trots down the stairs. 

Alone, Harry sighs. 

He can see Hermione's face, the disapproving downturn of her lips. The arms crossing, the jaw turning hard and stubborn. 

There’s a Howler in his future, he just knows it. 

The first rule of the Herbology Department is….do not, under any circumstances, for any reason, smell something that is foreign to you. 

Apparently, Clarence Topher did not get the brightly colored memo included in his intern packet. The memo Hermione wrote herself, just in case the obvious needed to be stated. And so, she finds herself shoulder to shoulder with Pansy Parkinson, grimacing at Topher’s swollen face. 

“That’s Dr. Parkinson,” Parkinson had emphasized, arching her eyebrows at Hermione’s smirk.

“Right, of course,” Hermione said. “Apologies. Doctor.” 

Hermione hid a smile at Parkinson’s suspicious look, biting her tongue. 

“You really should train your interns better, Granger,” Parkinson says, poking at Topher’s distended lip. “Fetch, sit, don’t do ignorant things. The usual.” 

Topher whimpers. 

“I see you’ve not developed manners along with your lofty new title,” Hermione comments. She leans against her desk, crossing her arms. 

“They pay me for my skills, not my etiquette.” 

“And you’re skilled, are you?” 

Parkinson pauses in her examination of Topher’s face. She raises her eyes, the corner of her mouth quirking up. 

“I’m very skilled,” she says. “Maybe I’ll show you sometime.” 

Topher’s puffed eyes roll between the two witches. 

Ice down her spine, Hermione coughs. 

“I would appreciate it if you would focus your skills on our Mr. Topher, please. Dr. Parkinson.” 

“And here I was hoping for a before dinner snack.” 

“That line works for you, does it?” 

“Typically.” 

Hermione sighs. “Mr. Topher’s face, please.” 

Tsking, Parkinson taps her wand on the intern’s nose. The swelling quickly recedes, his thickened features returning to something approximating a human face. 

Scribbling on a pad, Parkinson squints. 

“Here’s a note for an anti-inflammatory potion,” she says, ripping the parchment and passing it Topher. “Take it and stay in for the night. Works beautifully, but your bowels won’t like it. Best to be within whispering distance of the loo.” 

“Th-thank you,” he says. Turning to Hermione, he flushes. “I really am sorry, Miss Granger. The flowers were so lovely and well, I, eh, well -” 

“Take the rest of the day, Mr. Topher,” Hermione says. “I’ll see you in the morning. And I expect you won’t be late this time.” 

“N-no. Of course! Right on time!” 

He grins. Finding both witches staring blankly at him, he quickly mumbles and rushes out, the door slamming behind him. 

“You should fire him,” Parkinson says. She invites herself to sit on Hermione’s desk. She gives the brunette witch a cocky smile, giving her nails a cursory examination. “So, about that snack I mentioned…” 

“Out,” Hermione says. 

“I’ve just had a manicure.” 

“Parkinson. I have a rape whistle.” 

“Does it have a string? You could use it to tie my hands.” 

Hermione is mid-breath, cheeks flushed, her annoyance level astronomical, when a loud knock sounds at the door. 

“What?” she yells. 

The door opens, a mane of wild hair poking into the room. 

“Bit of a rude greeting, wouldn’t you say?” says the woman of her nightmares. 

Bellatrix Black. Standing there with an arrogant grin, her lips very red, her eyes black. 

Hermione freezes, her throat closing. She blinks and her cozy office is gone, replaced by a stone floor and grim light. 

“Sorry about this, pet,” a rough voice whispers. “We all have our part to play.”

Fire. Burning through her, obliterating her. The spell erased her, eroded her mind until it was a jumble of stuttering images. 

Her father, handsome and smiling as he posed with her next to a teetering sandcastle. 

Harry and Ron. Their arms around her as she cried.

She reaches for them and they scatter, their bodies blown away by her screams. 

“Now, Muddy,” Bellatrix Black sang. “One more time. With feeling this time!” 

Agony. Like the meat of her being scraped from her burning bones. 

She blinks again. She’s back in her office clutching at the scar on her arm. She looks down and there is a pale hand over her own. Parkinson is close, the smugness gone from her face. She is frowning, her green eyes dark with worry. 

“I asked if you are alright,” Parkinson says, watching her face closely. 

Across the room, Bellatrix hovers, something raw and pained in her eyes. Looking at the dark witch, Hermione swallows. 

Don’t give her that power, damn you, she thinks. 

Flashing a faint smile, Hermione carefully slides her hand out from under Parkinson’s. 

“Just a bit of vertigo,” she says. 

Parkinson doesn’t believe her. But she gives a sharp nod. She excuses herself, not bothering to hide the dark look she shoots at Bellatrix.

Hermione seats herself behind her desk. Bellatrix hovers until Hermione gives an impatient tilt of her chin, gesturing for her to sit. 

“If I had known it was you, I wouldn’t have come,” Bellatrix says, her voice uncharacteristically quiet. 

“And why is that?” Hermione asks. Her knuckles are white, hands clenched. 

“I can see I make you uncomfortable.” 

Leaning back in her chair, Hermione laughs. Surprised, Bellatrix raises her eyebrows.

Hermione disappeared after the War. Potter and Weasel were splashed all over papers, but the Golden Girl was nowhere to be seen. There were whispers of her, spotting here and there, but she was elusive, never staying in one place for long.

“She’s finding herself,” Andy said, watching her sister’s face with curiosity. “Why do you care, Bella?” 

She didn’t. The girl was not a nagging thought at the back of her mind. She didn’t think about her. She certainly wouldn’t do something so presumptuous as worry about the little fool. 

Bella had shrugged. “Only curiosity, dear sister.” 

Andy hummed, unconvinced. 

Bellatrix knew immediately when the girl was back. Their little community was suddenly buzzing, Andromeda fussing, Potter prancing about like a proud father. There was a party. Bellatrix made her excuses and locked herself in her room. She was very sure hers was the last face the girl would want to see. But she did peek. Towards the end of the night, as the noise began to die down, guests leaving. She hung her head out the window and there she was, leaning against a tree. Her eyes were on the sky, her hand at her throat. She held her wand with light fingers as she traced patterns in the air, runes glowing and raining gold dust onto the wet grass. 

Sitting behind her desk, her mouth set in a grim line, she looks much the same as she did as that 19 year old girl drawing magic in the air. Those same old soul eyes, the wild hair, the scattering of freckles over her nose. 

She would be adorable if she didn’t look like she wanted to hex Bellatrix’s head off her shoulders. Her laughter is aggressive, angry. 

“How kind you are, Madame Black. Worrying about my feelings. Shall I give you a gold star? An A+ in compassion for the day.” 

Oh, it’s going to be like that, is it? 

Bellatrix sets her jaw, adopting her signature smirk. 

“Has anyone ever told you that you are an absolute asshole, Ms. Granger?” 

Hermione’s harsh smile does not falter. “I find that your impression of me means less than nothing.” 

Good girl, Bellatrix thinks. Never show weakness.

“Likewise,” she says aloud. “But I find myself here not in search of your sparkling commentary, but because I have a rather nasty poison I need examined.” 

Ah, there it is. Interest. A tightening around her eyes, her focus narrowing. 

“May I see it?” 

Bellatrix rolls the phial across the desk. 

“Extracted from the stomach of a dead man. A dickless dead man, actually.” 

“Sounds exciting,” Hermione murmurs. She’s leaning over the phial, her wand tip glowing as she runs a diagnostic. There is silence for several moments before her lips curve up, a sparkle in her eyes. “I’ll have to have it tested to be absolutely certain, but I can safely say that this is a sample of Ricin.” 

“Do tell, pet.” 

“It’s a lovely poison, really. It can be injected, inhaled or ingested. Any way you administer it, the victim is sure to die. There is no antidote. The damage depends on the delivery. As this was found in his stomach, I won’t state the obvious. It has no unique taste or smell, so it isn’t a stretch to think he ingested the poison without knowing.” 

“How long before death?” 

“Depends on the quantity. Three days at most. He would have surely noticed something wrong if that were the case. You might hypothesize that with a large dose, he could have been poisoned as early as his morning cup of tea.” 

“Damn,” Bellatrix says. She runs a finger over her bottom lip, thinking. 

“I’ll have it tested to be sure.” 

“Do that,” Bellatrix says. She stands. “Thanks, Granger.” 

Eyes cool, Hermione leads the witch to the door. 

Bellatrix pauses. They’re close and the air between them buzzes with nervous energy. Bellatrix notes with a small smile that she has several inches on the other witch. She quite likes the way she tilts her head to look up at her, those eyes like melted chocolate. 

“Granger?” 

“Yes?” 

“Does it hurt? The scar?” 

Hermione’s face goes hard. “Get out.” 

“Wait. I ask because I can -” 

“You have 5 seconds, Black. If you’re still in my sight I am going to turn your ridiculous hair into a rug.” 

“My hair is not ridiculous!” 

Hermione begins to count. 

With haste and mumbles, Bellatrix flees.


	3. Chapter 3

Friday afternoons are reserved for tea and whisky. Traditionally, the Black sisters throw off their lovers, friends, acquaintances and anything that resembles responsibility and settle in for a good jawing. Surrounded by pillows, clothed in their baggiest, most comfortable clothes, they each pick a pastry and a beverage. The curtains are drawn, Teddy with Harry for the afternoon, and the record player is crooning out 80s power ballads. 

“A rug,” Bellatrix says, pouting. “My hair. These luscious locks! Can you imagine the cheek of her?” 

“She doesn’t have much reason to like you,” Andy comments in that blunt way of hers. “How many times did you try to kill her?” 

“I never tried to kill her,” Bellatrix says. “I don’t try. I do. It was war, Andy. I was playing a part and the damn girl was everywhere I turned. What should I have done? Here's a digestive biscuit, luv. Off to your Mummy now, you little chit. Like that? I was a Death Eater. Terrible things were expected of me.” 

“And terrible things you did. Should she forgive you? Because you had reasons?” 

“She’s an intelligent witch. Supposed to be, at any rate. Surely she can see past all of that.” 

“She needs time,” Narcissa says. Quiet little sister. All soft eyes and sad smiles. Unfairly adorable.

But always Bella’s favorite. She was all she had in the war, the last pure piece of herself. She kept what little was left of Bellatrix’s goodness, shielded it, held it for better days. For that, Bella would walk to the ends of the earth for her. She would murder, she would torture. Even more, she would turn the other cheek. She would strive to be a better, kinder woman. 

“Where do you think she went for all that time?” Bellatrix muses, nibbling on something with custard and rich chocolate. 

Andromeda watches her sister, her dark brows arched, her lips curled in a smirk. 

“Bella.” 

“Mm?” 

“Bit fixated, aren’t you?” 

Bellatrix sputters. “I beg your pardon?” 

“She’s an attractive witch,” Andy continues, stretching with a lazy yawn. “Big brown eyes, beautiful lips. Nice bum, too.” 

“I wouldn’t know,” Bellatrix says. Her expression is bland, but there is a tinge of red to her pale cheeks. 

Andy ticks off points on her fingers. “Intelligent, good job. Lovely with children. Well spoken. D’ya think she would fancy an older witch? She doesn’t strike me as a woman to limit herself to sausage when she could have the whole buffet.” 

Bellatrix chokes on her spiked tea. Narcissa hides a smirk behind her hand, but her eyes are dancing. 

“You wouldn’t,” Bellatrix says. 

Andy grins. “Wouldn’t I?”

“You’re old enough to be her mum, you evil woman.” 

“But I’m younger than you.” 

With a shout, Bellatrix launches a pillow at her sister. Andy chortles and bats it away. 

“Ladies,” Narcissa says, shielding her tea. “Decorum, please.” 

“Piss off,” Andy and Bella say together. 

Narcissa huffs, but her smile is pleased, her gaze soft. 

“Right,” Bellatrix says. “Not another word. Where’s the puzzle?”

“You lost the corner pieces, remember?” Andy says. 

“I did not!” 

“It was me, actually,” Narcissa says. 

“It was both of you.” 

“Why are you such a raging cunt?” Bellatrix says. 

Andy flips her off.

“Merlin, I need more drink to put up with this abuse.” 

“Alkie.” 

“Chippy.” 

“Dusty old twat wiffler.” 

Bellatrix gasps. Andromeda smirks. 

Eyes narrowing, Bellatrix reaches for her wand.

“No,” Narcissa says. “Not again.” 

Too late. 

“C’mon, Mione. Just for a moment?” 

Hermione hesitates. Teddy, attached like a monkey to Harry’s back, happily smacks away on a piece of brightly colored gum. His hair is pink today.

“Please?” Harry says. “You know Andy would be pleased to see you.” 

Hermione sighs, her resolve cracking. 

Andromeda Black is a soft spot on her hard heart. The woman has experienced so much loss, and yet she persists. She is a superwoman, dealing with grief, raising a grandson that is the spitting image of his mother. And somehow she always has a kind word to spare, a sweet smile. 

She was there after the Battle. 

The shock of it didn’t hit Hermione until well into the night. There were so many dead, so many injured. There was too much to do, too much damage to repair. Hands to hold, comfort to give. It was easy to compartmentalize, to focus her energy on someone else. 

Until it wasn’t. 

She was dead on her feet, running mechanically, her mind blank, her eyes dry and stuck open. There was a bowl of water in her hand. Only it wasn’t water. Not anymore. It was blood, black in the flickering candle light. 

Her hand began to shake. It was only a tremble at first, barely discernible. But then the bloody water began to slosh over the rim of the bowl. The shakes were in her arm, her teeth were chattering, her throat seizing up. Tears, hot and gritty, welled in her eyes, burned down her cheeks. Suddenly, she couldn’t breathe. She was gagging, choking, the bowl clattering to the floor with a breaking crash. 

Arms went around her. She fought against them, but they held her. She thrashed and screamed, arching and twisting. She fell to the ground, taking the owner of the arms with her. Legs joined the arms and she was held, locked in an embrace. Whispers were in her ears, but she didn’t understand. She couldn’t see, her eyes glued shut, only the darkness of her burning brain. 

Eventually, her body succumbed, her mind following close behind. She fell into a dark place and knew nothing more. When she woke, she was in a bed in Gryffindor Tower. Andromeda Black was seated on a chair at her side. Dark circles were smeared under her eyes and she was filthy, but she smiled when she saw Hermione’s eyes open. 

They didn’t speak. There were no words. 

She fed Hermione, taking care with her cut lips. She helped her to the baths to scrub away the violence and the grime of the day prior. She toweled her dry and held her steady as she slowly, laboriously dressed herself. 

When they parted, Andromeda touched her cheek, brushing the cut under her eye. 

“Take care of yourself, Hermione,” Andromeda said, those dark eyes full of pain, bleak with loss. “The world can get on by itself for a bit.”

Hermione nodded. She wanted to thank her, but her mouth was dry, her tongue thick and stuck to the roof of her mouth. 

Andromeda knew. She knew without hearing a word. She gave Hermione’s hand a final squeeze and she was gone.

Hermione left that very hour. Giving Harry and Ron a quick hug and goodbye, she took only the clothes on her back and her wand. 

In the present day, Harry watches her. He says her name and she blinks. 

“So, how about it?” he asks. 

Teddy giggles, grabbing Harry’s ears. 

“Please, please, please!” he sings.

Hermione sighs, giving a small smile. 

“Just for a minute.” 

They are greeted by floating feathers and deafeningly loud music. 

Gaping, Harry, Hermione and Teddy stare.

The Black sisters are in various states of elevation. Andy and Narcissa balanced on the back of the sofa, gripping with their toes, Bellatrix clinging like an angry cat to the curio cabinet. They are singing, loud and out of tune. The pillows are split, bleeding feathers. The coffee table is cracked in half. 

“Is that Pat Benatar?” Hermione shouts over the singing. 

Wordlessly, Harry shakes his head. 

Narcissa is the first to spot their audience. She gives a startled twitch, tumbling from her perch with a clatter of knees and elbows. Andromeda, good sister that she is, joins her with a battle-cry, tossing herself onto the floor. Bellatrix jumps away from the cabinet, eyes squeezed shut, singing her black little heart out as she hip thrusts herself across the floor. She only opens her eyes when she meets resistance. Blinking, she looks down into a bland face. Hard fingers press into her chest, holding her at distance. 

“Better check yourself,” Hermione says, giving the dark haired witch a stony look.

“Before you wreck yourself!” Andromeda pops up from behind the sofa with a whirl of dark curls and a huge grin. Narcissa pulls herself up, looking frazzled and dazed. 

“Hermione, luv!” Andromeda shouts. She cuts the record with a flick of her wrist. “How lovely.” 

Hermione’s eyebrows arch into her hairline as she finds herself pressed into a tight armed hug, her face smashed into a pair of soft breasts. She doesn’t see the razor edged smirk Andromeda shoots Bellatrix. She doesn’t see the way Bellatrix’s eyes narrow and her nostrils flare. 

But Harry does. Plucking Teddy from his back, he swings the little boy to the floor and eyes the witches. 

“I’ll just get this cleaned up,” Narcissa says, smoothing loose strands of hair from her flushed face. 

“Let me help,” Harry says, still giving Andy and Bella the fish eye. 

Hermione disentangles herself from Andromeda. She gives her a smile, holding her at arm's length. 

“Hello, Andy.”

“Hermione Granger. How long has it been since you have darkened my door?” 

Hermione gives a rueful shrug. 

“Too long,” Andromeda says with emphasis. She turns her attention to her grandson, the little boy attaching himself to her leg. 

“Sleepy,” he says. 

Her gaze soft, Andromeda scoops him into her arms. She gives him a loud kiss on the cheek and heads for the stairs. 

Harry sniffs a tea mug. 

“Whisky?” he says, looking at Bellatrix.

“Ehhhhm,” she mumbles. 

Hermione helps herself to a cream puff. “Is there any more?” 

Mouth full of pastry, she shrugs at Harry’s incredulous look. “It’s Friday, Harry.”

“Well,” he says, uncertain. 

“Really, Potter,” Bellatrix says. “Get the stick out your bum, would you.” 

“Would you like to sit next to me, Hermione?” Andy calls as she comes back down the stairs. She gives a sweet smile and Hermione returns it. “We have some catching up to do. You’ve had a promotion, I hear.” 

And so Hermione finds herself smashed between Narcissa and Andromeda. Harry seats himself on the edge of a chair arm and Bellatrix sinks herself into a ridiculously comfortable recliner. She throws her legs over the arm and focuses her attention on the conversation around her. 

“Herbology,” Andy is saying. “Not what I would have imagined you picking.” 

“Well, it’s quiet.” 

Harry chuckles. “They think you’re a daredevil, Mione.” 

She gives a sniff. “That would be Harry and Ron. I was really only along because I couldn’t bear to watch them blow themselves up.” 

“You don’t miss it, then?” Andromeda asks. “Being at the center of things?” 

“No. I am content with my books and my lab. And I enjoy training the new hires, overseeing projects.” 

“That’s her polite way of saying that she would be perfectly content if the rest of the world would sod off and let her read all day,” Harry smiles into his drink. 

Bellatrix snorts. She gives an innocent smile as all eyes turn to her. 

“Something to add?” Harry asks. His eyes are steely. 

Bellatrix gives a lopsided shrug, but her eyes are on Hermione. “You’re fooling yourself. You think it’s safe on the sidelines. You don’t want attention on you. But you crave conflict.” 

“Do I?” Hermione leans forward so that her elbows are on her knees, her palm cupping her chin. “Please, educate me.” 

Bellatrix swings her feet to the floor. She leans forward as well, locking her gaze on Hermione’s. “You’ve got this cover story, right? You’re the bookish one. You’re quiet. Nothing too brash or garish, nothing to draw eyes to you. But you’re hiding. Because you don’t trust yourself. You’ve got a temper and it snaps when you least expect it. You try to control it, but the control is all you have. And it’s fragile at best, tenuous. You have friends and people that care for you, but you keep your distance, you isolate yourself. You’re terrified they’ll see you for what you are. 

“Thing is, you little fool, there’s not a damn thing wrong with you. You can sit there and grieve and get lost in your memories, or you can live. You can go on. The dead have no claim on you, Granger. None of what happened was your fault. Figure that out. And get back out there and live your bloody life.” 

The silence is deafening. 

Slowly, expression sardonic, Hermione claps her hands. “Learn that in therapy, did you, Black?” 

“Don’t be a bastard.” 

“Right. Because you, the greatest of deceivers, have a right to sit there and psycho babble at me. Turn that perception on yourself and fuck off, yeah?” 

Bellatrix shrugs, leaning back in her chair. “You’re never going to heal if you keep shitting on good advice.” 

Hermione stands suddenly. Bellatrix tenses, but forces herself still as the younger woman stalks toward her. 

Standing over the dark haired witch, her eyes gone feral, Hermione bares her scarred arm. “Look,” she hisses. “Look at what you did. Can you explain that, Black? Can you explain it away? Was it in duty to your Ministry? Was it to keep your cover? It burns, you horrible woman. Every day of my life. I feel it every second I’m awake. And when you’re close, like you are now, it feels like I’m back on that filthy fucking floor and your carving into my arm all over again. Justify that.”

Heart low in her stomach, her eyes suddenly burning, Bellatrix takes Hermione’s arm. She looks at the scars. The letters are childish and thick, raised and angry against Hermione's pale skin. 

Mudblood. 

Still holding her forearm, Bellatrix her fingertips over the scars. She presses her hand over the word and looks into Hermione’s eyes. The younger woman’s lips part and her eyes darken, caught by the emotions she sees playing across the dark witch’s face. 

“I’m sorry,” Bellatrix says, her voice thick. “I can’t change the past. But I can take your pain away. If you will let me.” 

For a moment, Hermione’s expression eases, her face opening. Bellatrix sees everything she is. She sees the confusion, the pain, the anger. She sees the hope she holds like a flickering flame in her chest. She sees compassion, understanding. 

And then it’s gone. Like a door closing, lights turning off, the sun blinking from existence. Hermione snarls and wrenches her arm away. She leaves without a word, the door slamming behind her. 

Silence fills the space behind her. 

Harry sets his cup aside, the glass clinking against the wood of the repaired coffee table. 

“What you said,” he says carefully, his eyes bright and pained, “Is it true? You can erase the scars?” 

“I can’t erase the scars,” Bellatrix says. She presses her fingers into her throbbing temples, swallowing the bitterness in her mouth. “I can lift the curse. I can stop the pain, but she will always wear the scars. Some magic can’t be undone.” 

“Why did you do it?” The question comes from Narcissa, her pale eyes boring into her sister with terrifying intensity. “She was a child, Bella. How could you hurt her like that?” 

Were it anyone else that asked her those questions, Bellatrix would have blasted a hole in the bastard’s guts and tap danced on their face. But coming from Narcissa, it’s like a knife to the heart. 

Shame, white hot and greasy, pulses in her stomach and she bows her head. “I wasn’t myself,” she says. 

“That is a flimsy excuse,” Harry says. 

“Oh, but it’s easy to feign superiority when you’re the hero, Potter. I fought that fucking war before you were even a thought, you smug cunt. I left everything that I ever held dear. I killed people I loved. I spent 15 years of my life in Azkaban. All while the entire world thought I was a monster. But was I was worse than that. I was Bellatrix Lestrange and I meant to wreck the world. What came out of those walls was not me.” 

“And you’re all better now? Bygones be bygones?” 

She sighs. “It’s the past. I’ll not spend the rest of my life grovelling, no matter what you uppity twats think.” 

After a long moment, Harry nods. 

“The horcruxes...they nearly destroyed us. There was so much evil in them, they twisted us. We were torn apart by jealousy, rage, fear. So much darkness, all of it bleeding into us. I think I can understand what you went through. I’ll never agree, but I understand.” He pauses, swallows. “Hermione does as well. I want you to help her. But...she’s confused, angry. Give her time, please. Don’t give up on her.” 

Bellatrix gives him a sad smile. 

“I’ll be right here waiting.”


	4. Chapter 4

On Needless street, down near the end, nestled between a chocolate shop and a laundromat, is a nondescript building. It is no more than a door in the wall, an intercom next to it. Walking by, your eyes would slide right over that paint flaked door, barely sparing it a thought. 

Selwyn gives a sniff, hocking phlegm onto the sidewalk. Mousy haired and plain faced, he is much like the door in the wall; part of the scenery, an unextraordinary face in the crowd, static on the radio. He looks friendly enough, like he might hold the door for you. But there is something twitchy to him. As if he might slip his hand into your pocket and palm your wallet as he holds open said door. 

He crosses the street. He presses the intercom button and waits. 

“Yes?” comes a voice, feminine. 

“I’m here about my knee,” Selwyn says. 

“Ah. The Doctor is in.” 

The door buzzes open. 

Up a long flight of stairs. The walls are institutional green, the lights an uncomfortable flickering fluorescent. Selwyn climbs until he comes to a small waiting room. Seated in hard plastic chairs, knees crossed, are mostly men. There is one woman. Selwyn gives them a cursory glance, then promptly keeps his eyes to himself. 

Discretion is key, after all. 

The reservation window snicks open as he approaches. A woman with dark lips and a crisp white nurse’s cap gives him a smile. She extends a clipboard to him. 

He signs his name Otto A. Sphixia. 

“Have there been any improvements?” The nurse asks. 

“I’m afraid not,” he replies. “I think I may require more...aggressive treatments.” 

The nurse hums, ticking a box on her checklist. “How unfortunate.” 

Selwyn smiles. Not pleasantly. 

“Have a seat, please. The Doctor will see you shortly.” 

The seats are unforgiving on the backside. In short, they are a delight to the clientele. 

His wait is short. He has barely cracked a copy of Gardener’s Monthly when a door opens and his name is called. The nurse at the door smiles at him and ushers him through. She leads him down a narrow hallway lined with laminated wooden doors. She pauses near the end, gesturing for him to proceed into a brightly lit room. 

Inside, she weighs him, checks his temperature and his pulse. She marks everything down. 

“Strip,” she says. She doesn’t look at him. 

His heart gives a flutter and he takes a breath. He makes quick work of his clothes, leaving them in a sloppy pile on the floor. 

“Table,” she says. 

The surgical table is stainless steel, covered only with a thin lining of parchment paper. The paper sticks to his skin as he climbs up and the cold of the steel bites into him. He swallows, blinking up into the lights. 

The nurse buckles him in with leather straps. They smell of rubbing alcohol and sweat. 

“Not too tight?” The nurse asks. 

He shakes his head. 

She frowns, tightens the straps until he gasps. 

“There,” she beams. “All comfy now? Lovely. Safeword?” 

He opens his mouth to reply and she stuffs a ball gag into his mouth. 

“No need,” she says, strapping the gag. “Shall I let The Doctor in now?” 

He nods. 

The Doctor is a tall woman. She has an ageless sort of face, neither young nor old. Her hair is pale, nearly colorless. She has a singular bright blue eye, the other covered by a white eye patch. Her lips are the color of blood and her teeth are perfectly straight. She wears a starched lab coat, the collar flipped up around her neck. Her heels click as she walks across the floor. She taps Selwyn’s pale, exposed belly with a sharp nail. 

“How are we this morning?” The Doctor asks. 

Selwyn slobbers around the hard rubber ball in his mouth and blinks. 

The Doctor leans close to his face. Her breath smells of strong coffee. 

“Tell me where it hurts,” she says. 

She taps his throat. He lays still. 

His chest. He merely blinks. 

His stomach. Nothing.

She taps his balls and his leg jumps. He makes a sound low in his throat. 

The Doctor doesn’t hide her distaste. She reaches across Selwyn to the instrument tray and chooses a pair of clamps. 

“Just once, I would love for one of you sick fucks to surprise me,” The Doctor says. “Hold your breath, nancy boy.” 

She clamps him. Not gently. He feels a tearing, burning in his scrotum and he squeals, his thigh muscles bunching, ankles straining against the restraints. 

It’s heaven. 

The Doctor gives a sharp twist and he howls, spittle flying in strings from around the ball gag. 

The Doctor grimaces. “Merlin, but you’re degenerate.” 

Selwyn freezes. 

The medical fetish facility on Needless street is Muggle owned and operated. Not a single wizard or witch on staff. 

So who in the fuck - 

The Doctor grins, showing pointed canines. She folds her collar and Selwyn gets an eyeful of the Azkaban tattoo inked onto her neck. 

He screams, his face turning an unhealthy shade of red, the veins and cords in his neck bulging. The leather restraint straps bite into him as he struggles, kicking his legs, thrashing his upper body. 

“Oh, hush,” The Doctor says. She backhands hims.

Affronted, he struggles harder. 

“What? Isn’t that what you’re here for? Tits, ass, and deep cuts? You’re really disgusting, you know.” 

It doesn’t take long for Selwyn to exhaust himself. When he does, sagging and sweating on the surgical table, The Doctor uncrosses her arms. 

“Jada Macnair,” she says, dropping into a low curtsy. “Never had the displeasure. But then, you weren’t much, were you? A lackey, if I recall. Not even worthy of the Mark. Would you like to see mine?” 

She bares her arm. The Mark is a faint scar, a dead, silent thing. 

She caresses it. “You wouldn’t know how it felt, when He died. It was…” she pauses, her voice drifting. She snaps herself back to attention. “It was horrible. His pain was our pain. His death was our own. The Faithful.” 

She sticks her face into his, peering at him with a hard blue eye. “Take heart. Your death will serve a greater purpose. You’ll be helping bring about a new order. A grand new future.” 

She smiles. She reaches for the instrument tray, scattering scalpels until she comes up with a syringe. 

“Cheers, fucker,” she says, and stabs the needle into his eye. She injects the poison directly into his brain and watches, her breath held, as the spark leaves his undamaged eye. 

She exhales, holding the backs of her fingers over his lips. She feels no stir of breath and she laughs. 

“That’s a lovely eye,” she says. His eye is amber, cut with lines of green. “Think I’ll take it for myself.” 

She reaches for a scalpel. 

“Different poison,” Brightson is saying, chewing on the end of his quill. He scans the autopsy report. “Wizarding poison, this time. Black Blood, they call it. Liquefied his brain in seconds.”

Ice pack pressed to her eye, Bellatrix grunts. 

The morning began as every morning for her. The sun creeping around the curtains, setting a warm glow against her eyelids. She stretched, curled her toes. Gave her scalp a good itch. Swung her feet to the floor, hissing at the coldness of the floor. Not picking up her feet, shuffling to the bathroom. Wee, shower, brushing of the pearlies. 

All right on track. 

Until the toaster blew up in her face. 

It was fine, really. She could move past it. She flattened her hair back, wiped the soot from her face. Reached for the tea kettle. 

Then the water shut off. The faucet gurgled, spat something brown, and flowed no more. 

Alright. Breathe, Black. Have some milk, yeah? Good for your bones. 

But then she looks at the jug. She’s standing there, holding the fridge door open, eyeing the plastic container, when it hits her; tit milk. Not just any tit milk, either. Cow. Cow tit. Cow. Tiddies.

Rather not, thanks. 

Back in the fridge it went. Stomach uneasy, she decided life would be simpler if she skipped breakfast and got herself out the door. 

That was, until the coat rack assaulted her.

Innocent her, tugging on her robes, hopping around trying to pull her boots on. Because of course she hadn’t untied them when she removed them the night before. Who has the time? So she squirmed, bruised and scraped her thumbs trying to shove her feet back into the unwelcoming combats. She was nearly there, one foot slipping in as she gave an enormous sigh, reaching for the other boot with her smarting fingers, when there was a crack like the sky opening up. 

She gave a hoarse cry and started and the coat rack, an enchanted gift from Narcissa, screamed bloody murder and clobbered her across the face with one of its knobby arms.

“Intruder!” the coat rack screamed. Which was strange, because it hadn’t a mouth. 

“Merlin’s soggy knickers!” Bellatrix cried, reaching for her wand. 

Still screaming like a stepped on cat, the coat rack knocked the wand from her hand. 

“Thief!” The coat rack exclaimed. 

“Shit!” Bellatrix ducked another swinging arm. “Andy!” 

No answer. 

“Murder!” she screamed, rolling behind the sofa as the coat rack advanced. “Bloody fucking murder!” 

“Fire!” The coat rack howled. 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Bellatrix screamed at the thing, using a cushion as a shield. 

“AHHHHHHHHHHH!” The coat rack screamed. 

Andromeda, wearing whiskered bunny slippers and a Weird Sisters t-shirt, her wits still foggy, came tumbling down the stairs. She froze. 

Bellatrix was snarling, a knee shoved in the center of her absolute FAVORITE coat rack, strangling the varnish from it. 

Andromeda rubbed her eyes. Blinked. Pinched herself. 

“Andy!” Bellatrix screamed. “For fuck’s sake, woman! Help!” 

The coat rack had been disabled. And shattered into splinters. 

And so, Bellatrix groans, slumped over her desk. She slaps the sweating ice pack down and Brightson gives a whistle at her bloodshot eye. 

“Am I hideous?” Bellatrix asks. 

“Erm,” Brightson says. It seems like a loaded question. 

“Sod it. Go on. Black Blood, Selwyn was a pervy mcperv who like his bollocks nipped. What else?” 

“Lemon drop.” 

“Come again?” 

“In his mouth. He had a lemon drop. Same for the others. The coroner says they each had one lodged under their tongues.” 

Bellatrix squints. “What. The. Fuck.” 

“Right? Not a fan, myself. Like a bit of chocolate.” 

“Milk or dark?” 

“Milk.” 

“My friend.” She high fives him. “What say we go find some? Right now? My head feels like it’s going to fecking blow. I’d like one more chocolate caramel before I croak.” 

“Oh.” Brightson blinks. “Shouldn’t we be working?” 

“Later, Brightson. Much later.” 

Eyes scanning a rather long application, Hermione cuts her eyes up at the woman across from her. 

“This is very impressive,” Hermione says. She glances at the name on the application. “Ms. Steward.” 

“Please,” the woman says. “Call me Charlie.” 

“Charlie.” Hermione sets the application aside. “You have quite an impressive skill set. May I ask why you chose Herbology?” 

Charlie shifts, dropping her gaze to her hands. “You’ll think me silly.” 

“Try me.” Hermione gives her friendliest smile. 

“Oh, I feel foolish. You’re a hero. And, well, I feel as if my struggles are nothing compared to your own. I wouldn’t want you to think less of me.” 

“Nonsense. Everything is perspective. Your experiences are no more and no less valid than my own. Speak your mind.” 

Charlie swallows. “I lost my parents to the War. My brother. I...well, I would like to be of help. To offer something. But, I want to do it quietly, if you understand my meaning. I want to be left alone and I want to work. I have a good feeling about this department. An intuition, you might say.” 

Hermione blinks. The decision comes easy. She stands, holding out her hand. “I think you and I will work well together.” 

Charlie takes Hermione’s hand in her own. She looks at her with her strange eyes, one blue, the other the color of warm honey, and gives a shy smile. 

“Thank you, Ms. Granger. I won’t let you down. I promise.”


	5. Chapter 5

The last place one would expect to find Bellatrix Black is in a Muggle grocery store. But find her Hermione does. Staring at the ingredients list on a pack of granola, brows cut into a deep frown, Hermione is debating whether or not 10 grams of sugar counts as added sugar if it’s in cranberries. So wrapped up in this back and forth with herself is she, that she doesn't notice the Black sisters until it is too late. The scars on her arm blaze to life and she gasps, nearly dropping the controversial granola to the floor.

She raises her eyes. Next to the pineapples stands Bellatrix and Andromeda. Bellatrix is pouting, looking one thundercloud away from a fit.

“Put your hand on the trolley, Bella,” Andromeda says. She is absentminded, biting her lip as she looks at avocados. 

“Don’t wanna,” Bellatrix says. She puts her hand on the cart anyway. “Are we done yet?” 

Andromeda squeezes an avocado. She gives it a dubious sniff, tapping it with a fingernail. “How do you reckon you know if they’re ripe?” 

“Is that even edible?” 

“Well, it’s in the veg section, isn’t it?” 

“So are turnips. We both know those aren’t edible.” 

“Fair point.” Andromeda tosses the avocado back. 

Both witches look up just in time to see a wild pile of curly hair duck behind the tomatoes. Andromeda peeks around the display. Her eyebrows raise as she finds Hermione coughing and lacing her trainer. 

“Erm,” Hermione says. She lets out a breath, giving a sheepish grin as she stands. 

Andromeda smirks. Bellatrix coughs and snatches her hand away from the trolley. She puffs her chest, crosses her arms and cocks her hip. 

Nothing to see here. Fucking hell. Looking like a toddler out with Mum. Fuck me. 

“Hello, darling,” Andromeda says, giving the younger woman a quick squeeze. 

How does she do that, Bellatrix wonders. If Bellatrix were to so casually try to hug someone, they would scream. And possibly die from shock. Better yet, were that someone Hermione, she is sure she would find herself transfigured into a block of especially stinky cheese. 

Speaking of…

She looks the brunette witch over. She looks decidedly “weekend”. Old jeans worn at the knees, trainers, hair a messy pile on top of her head, t-shirt just a little too small. She spots a sliver of pale skin peeking out as the t-shirt rides up under Andromeda’s not so motherly hug. Her fingertips tingle and she blinks, wondering what it might be like to dip her knuckles along her spine. 

“Bellatrix,” says Andy’s voice. 

“Mmm?” She looks up. The pair stare at her, Andromeda amused, Hermione unreadable. “Sorry. I was thinking of melons. Er, watermelons.” She tries to give a disarming smile, but she feels like a toothless chihuahua. 

Watermelons? Really? You suave bitch, you. 

Merlin, but she wishes she could just turn into a bat and flap away. Perhaps she could, she’s not tried.

“Lunch,” Andromeda is saying. 

Granger looks uncertain, her doe eyes on Bellatrix, biting her lip like she might devour the gorgeous thing. 

“Right, food,” Bellatrix says eloquently. “Fingering food. Ehm, I mean, finger food.”

FUCK! WHY!

Granger glances at her watch. She gives a small, relenting smile. Directed at Andy, of course. For Bellatrix she reserves cool, casual gaze. 

That is how Hermione finds herself tucked into an insanely uncomfortable chair, trapped between Bellatrix and the wall. 

“Sorry,” the dark haired witch murmurs, wincing as she pulls her elbow out of Hermione’s side. For the second time in as many minutes. She looks so panicked, her neck flushed, her expression uncomfortable, that Hermione eases her frown, placing a hand on Bellatrix’s jogging knee. 

“Are you alright?” Hermione asks. 

“I’m grand. Everything's all fine here. How are you?”

In spite of herself, Hermione lets out a quick laugh. There is something oddly endearing about Bellatrix. She is all too human, crammed in a crowded restaurant, stiff backed and jostled by passing servers. She has chosen to give Hermione a wide berth, hanging herself half into the aisle in an effort to give her space. 

As if on cue, Bellatrix curses, her elbow smashed by a plate trolley as it rolls by. 

Hermione grabs the lip of Bellatrix’s seat, scooting her closer, out of trolley reach. Clutching her smarting elbow, Bellatrix gives an uncertain smile. 

She has lovely eyes, Hermione thinks to herself. They are very dark, heavy lidded, the lashes long. She has quite an attractive face. Features smooth and strong, like a sculpture. An aristocratic nose, expressive brows, a gentle curvature to her upper lip, the lower slightly fuller. Her jaw line is sharp, touchable.

Beautiful. But terrifying. It is the face she sees when she sleeps, when she slumbers in a dark place. It is the face that haunts her, that reminds her she is weak, fallible. 

Bellatrix sees the thoughts plainly in Hermione's eyes. She sees each one play out, unfolding like the release of a raven’s wing. She takes a chance, brushing her fingertips over the other woman’s cheek. 

Give me a chance, she wants to say. Let me show you who I really am. 

Hermione’s face tilts, pressing her cheek into Bellatrix’s smooth palm. Her eyes slip closed and she lets out a shuddering breath,

...And Bellatrix curses again, an elbow catching her in the head as a server dances by with a tray of sandwiches. 

The moment shatters and Hermione withdraws, her gaze growing distant and cool. 

Thankfully, Andy’s timing is impeccable. She returns to their table with a large smile, depositing their drinks. 

“So,” she says, beaming. “Ready to order?” 

Bellatrix grunts and Hermione gives a vague smile. 

Ginny Weasley is accustomed to Hermione’s moods. She is mercurial, one moment distant, the next her attention so intent it’s almost uncomfortable. She exists on a breadth of string, balancing herself between swinging emotions and manic energy. 

In short, she is an absolute mad woman. 

Today, she is pacing, her thumbnail caught between her teeth. Ginny mourns her carpet. 

“I don’t know what to do,” Hermione says. “She gives me this look, you know?” 

No, Ginny doesn’t know. 

“I want to hate her. I should! The things she’s done...but who am I? What I’ve done, am I any better?” 

Ginny opens her mouth - 

“But that’s not really the point, is it?” Hermione says, gnawing her thumb. “We’re not comparing a psycho reactions list, right?”

Ginny shuts her mouth. 

“War, it makes beasts of us all.” 

Ah, philosophy now. 

“She can lift the curse, Gin. She can make this go away. Maybe...maybe if she does, it will change something in me.” 

Ginny shifts. 

“Right. I know. Deferring responsibility. Need to stop that.”

Exactly. 

“I need to have sex.” 

Wait. What? 

“That’s what it is. Libido. She’s very beautiful, you know. And it’s difficult not to notice when she’s giving me the eye all the damn time. How warped is that? The woman laid me open like a split carcass and I want to fuck her. Really. I’m disappointed in myself.” 

Fucking? How did we get here?

“Did you know Pansy Parkinson is a doctor? A good looking one, actually. She was such a bitch. But I guess we all changed.” 

Wait, not Parkinson. Do. Not. Fuck. PARKINSON. 

Hermione lets out a deep sigh, shooting her friend a grateful smile. 

“You’re an absolute peach, Gin. I’ll get this out of my system and then Bellatrix Black will be nothing more than a bad memory. Lovely. Ta.” 

Ginny blinks owlishly as the front door closes. 

“You’re welcome,” she shouts. 

Mondays are like a lobotomy; painful, foggy, and completely unnecessary. 

By tea time, Hermione’s eyes are burning, her mind swimming and echoing with a dozen formulas. Her fingertips are black with with ink. She has begun talking to herself. 

She looks up as there is a tap at the door. 

Charlie Steward hesitates, her smile uncertain, a take-away cup per hand. She does a little dance, shifting from foot to foot, her eyebrows raised in question. Hermione laughs, beckoning her in. 

“You looked like you could use caffeine,” Charlie says, gingerly placing a steaming cup on Hermione’s desk. She shrugs a shoulder in the direction of the glass wall that serves as a barrier between Hermione and the other researchers. “Hope you don’t mind me peeking at you. You don’t have much privacy.” 

Hermione gives a groan of pleasure as she inhales the aroma of hot, sweet tea. “If this tea tastes as good as it smells, you’re forgiven.” 

Smiling, Charlie taps an index finger against her own cup. “It’s not from the canteen. It’s my own stock.” 

“Really?” Hermione meets her strangely colored eyes as she takes a sip. The other woman seems apprehensive, watching her closely. 

“Good?” Charlie asks. 

Hermione sighs. “Heaven. Please, sit.” 

Charlie does. She unwraps a lemon drop, popping it into her mouth with a clatter of candy on teeth. She offers Hermione one, but the brunette witch declines with a polite shake of her head. 

“Are you settling in well?” Hermione asks

“Yes, very. I love how well stocked everything is. I’m accustomed to running formulas on my own. I very rarely have exactly what I need.” 

Hermione sips her tea, her lips giving a sardonic twist. “The funding is amazing, if nothing else.” 

“May I ask a personal question?” 

She should say no. Typically, she would. She has learned to harden herself, to quickly shut down inquiries. She lost her people-pleaser attitude long ago and finds herself reluctant to let so much as a sliver of herself escape. 

But there is something intent in Charlie’s gaze, a frankness that appeals to her. So she smiles, dips her chin. 

“Do you like movies?” 

Hermione blinks. “Movies?” 

“Ehm, yes. It’s only…” She grimaces, seems to chide herself. “Iwonderedifyouwouldliketoseeamoviewithme.” 

“Oh.” Not what she expected. “I’m sorry, I don’t think that would be appropriate.” 

“I won’t tell a soul.” 

“I’m sure you’re the very picture of discretion. But I feel uncomfortable with the idea. Work and personal relationships should be kept separate.” 

Charlie considers. She crosses her legs and leans back in her chair, leveling a suddenly intent gaze on Hermione. 

“I’ll be blunt,” she says. “I find you attractive. We’re of an appropriate age, compatible as far as I can tell. I’m very good at compartmentalizing. I can keep my feelings and my work separate. If you don’t find yourself similarly inclined, I’ll banish the thought and never speak of it again. But I think I might surprise you. And if that tension in your shoulders is anything to go by, we could be quite serviceable to one another.” 

Oh. She means…

Hermione swallows. 

“Think about it,” Charlie says, standing to take her leave. “Owl me if you change your mind.” 

Hermione stares after her. She watches as she closes the door, walks across the floor to the work stations. She sets her tea aside and shrugs back into her lab coat. She pauses, glancing over to dart a mischievous Hermione’s way as she looks up to meet her eyes.

Down, Hermione thinks. Don’t even think about it. 

There is something about her. Something metallic beneath the gentle surface, a hunger that matches her own. Secrets, dark wisps of smoke. 

Across the way, Charlie smirks. She bends her head to her work and does not look back up. 

Got you, Charlie thinks. 

Lighting matches, Bellatrix squints at the papers scattered over her desk. 

“What do we know about The Doctor?” Bellatrix asks. She closes one eye, looks at the papers again. Unsurprisingly, nothing changes.

“Mid-twenties,” Brightson says. “Blonde hair, above average height. Blue eye.” 

“Eye? As in one?” 

“Affirmative.” 

“Did she have a peg leg as well?” 

Brightson gives her a look. “I expect better of you.” 

“Right. Sorry.” She must try to remember the HR courses on sensitivity. 

“Anyway. Cover story was that she was working through uni, needed a bit of extra dosh to pay her way. Worked there for several months.” 

“That’s dedication.” 

Brightson gives a grunt of agreement. 

“No pictures, I take it?” 

“Negative. It’s not the sort of thing you want your mug associated with.” 

“Why not? If I clipped peoples’ bits for a living, I would shout it from the rooftops.” 

“Well. You are a bit...loud. Ma’am.” 

She eyes him. “I’m putting you in for a raise at the end of this.” 

He coughs, looking pleased with himself. 

Hermione is at loose ends, traffic loud in her ears, the sky smoggy and smudged above her head.

“Would you be terribly mad if I changed our destination?” Charlie yells above the car horns. 

Hermione shakes her head. Anything to be away from this noise. 

Giving a red lipped smile, Charlie takes her hand, spinning her. They set off at a fast clip, Hermione all but running to keep up with the taller woman’s long strides. They walk until there are no cars, only masses of bodies, moving against one another, shuffling, passing in and out of restaurants, clubs, shops. The air smells greasy, hot with so many people packed into the narrow streets. 

After a time, even the crowd thins and they find themselves walking along a softly lit street. Sakura trees line the walks and Hermione sighs, tilting her face back and inhaling deeply. The petals are brightly pink, beautiful against the umber sky. 

Charlie gives a tug, leads her down an alley. They pause beside a dumpster and Hermione raises an eyebrow. 

“Hold your reservations,” Charlie says. She flicks her hair over her shoulder and smiles. Meeting Hermione’s gaze, she gives a kick, shattering a window at street level. 

“What the hell?” Hermione hisses, stepping back to examine the damage. “You’re a witch, not a common burglar. Couldn’t you have magicked it away?” 

“Could have,” Charlie says. “But it feels good to do it like this, don’t you think? An element of danger is...intoxicating.” 

“I may need to reassess my opinion of you.” 

“Oh?” Charlie presses close suddenly, backing her into the brick of the building. The rough texture snags at her coat. “And what is it you’re thinking, exactly?” 

Hermione glances down at the narrow space between their bodies. She looks into Charlie’s eyes and the other witch gives a twisted smile. She reaches out, tangling her fingers in Hermione’s scarf. 

“Business and pleasure are separate. Right? Boss.” 

“You’re evil.” 

“You don’t know the half of it.” Charlie steps away, gestures to the broken window. “Shall I go first?” 

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Hermione says, watching as the other woman slides through the window. 

A scrape and a huff and Charlie’s face reappears. She beckons and Hermione crouches, drops to her stomach. She wiggles through the window, Charlie’s hands steadying her, helping her to the floor. 

“Where are we?” Hermione asks, looking around. 

There is a boiler, dusty boxes and stacks of moldy, teetering newspapers. 

Charlie offers her hand again. She remains silent, her amber eye nearly glowing in the dim light. 

Hermione takes her hand. She allows herself to be pulled up a flight of old wooden stairs, through a door. They emerge into a hall, the place smelling of disinfectant, the floors tiled and squicky under their shoes. Posters promoting positivity and drug control decorate the walls. 

Charlie leads her down a long hall, pausing outside a set of double doors. 

“Here,” Charlie says. 

Hermione lays a hand on her arm, palming her wand. “Please, let me. My heart can’t take anymore of your ‘element of danger’.”

“Be my guest.” 

Hermione taps the lock with her wand and whispers. The door clicks and Hermione gives a triumphant grin. 

“Goody two shoes,” Charlie accuses. She grins as she opens the door, slipping inside. She presses a hand against Hermione’s chest, barring her from entrance. “Give me a moment. Keep an eye peeled. Scream if you see anything fishy.” 

“Fishy?” 

But she is already gone, the door whispering closed behind her. 

It feels an eternity that she is gone. When she returns, Hermione is leaned against a wall, seconds away from dozing. Charlie laughs, pulling her into the room by her scarf. 

They are standing inside an atrium. At the center, growing into a concave skylight is a flowering white sakura tree. It is massive, its bark glowing with bright blue sparks. There is no floor, all glassy black water, intersected by a stone walk. Looking closely, she sees runes carved into the stone. Moss grows along the walls, climbing into the enchanted skylight; enchanted to look like a starry night - Mars a violent red against the purple of space, the stars like burning fires, blue and red, whirls of white cosmos. 

Eyes wide, Hermione spins in a circle, her head back, her footsteps echoing off of the water. 

“Did you do this?” she asks.

“Some of it.” Charlie moves to stand next to her, admiring her handiwork. “I’m quite good with a wand.” 

Hermione laughs, a sound of pure, unadulterated joy. “It’s incredible. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so beautiful.” 

“There was an atrium in my home, much like this one. I spent entire summers under the skylight, reading and dreaming.” 

They orbit one another, the energy of the room not allowing for stillness. The backs of their fingers brush together, their eyes catching. 

“You miss it,” Hermione says. 

“I miss being innocent. I was blind, you know. Quite literally. These eyes, they aren’t mine.” 

“What happened?” 

Charlie’s laughter is harsh, the twist of her lips cruel. “Genetics. I’m a Pureblood. My line in particular was very...incestuous. I was promised to my brother the day he was born.” 

Hermione says nothing. She watches. 

“I like that about you, Hermione. You know when to shut the fuck up.” 

“You’re not who you said you were.” The certainty of the statement chills her, sets her teeth on edge. 

Charlie catches her hands, pulling her tight against her body. She looks down into her eyes and sways to an unheard music. 

“My entire family was slaughtered in the War. Aurors. They came in the night and burned our home to ash. I wasn’t terribly upset, to be honest.” She reaches up, brushing her fingers against the glamour hiding the tattoo on her neck. It shimmers, fades, baring the dark ink etched deep into her skin. “I was a follower of the Dark Lord. I was sure He was the way. The way to freedom and glory. Until I ended up in a cell with Dementors sucking the soul from my face. Does that surprise you?” 

Hermione touches the tattoo, feeling its smooth edges with her fingertips. “Why tell me?” 

“I quite like you. And I can’t hide forever. Suffice it to say, I saw the error of my ways. I never harmed anyone. Never had the chance. By the time I was free, He was dead and His hold was gone. My family was dead and there I stood, little old me, the last of my line. It would be tragic if it weren’t so fucking beautiful.” 

“What is your name?” 

Eyes bright, Jada twirls her, spins her back into her arms with a flourish. “Does it really matter?” 

Hermione says nothing. 

“Oh, fine. Jada Macnair, at your service.” She gives an arrogant bow, lips curled in an unpleasant smile. 

“And what do you want, Jada Macnair?” 

“I’ve told you. I want a quiet life. Beyond the sins of my ancestors. Out from under the taint of my blood.” 

“And if I don’t believe you?” 

“I’ll prove it to you. We’re not so different, you and I. Victims of circumstance. Wrong place, wrong time, wrong everything. Don’t we deserve a second chance?” 

There is a seductive quality to her voice, a tease to the curl of her lip. 

“We could have been friends,” Jada muses. “If a war and blood hadn’t separated us. Maybe everything would have been different. Bittersweet to consider, wouldn’t you say?” 

“I don’t deal in possibilities, only certainties.” 

“You should sew that on a pillow.” 

“Can I trust you?” 

“No,” Jada says. “But you should still try.” 

She kisses Hermione, her teeth sharp, her tongue insistent. She kisses like fire, like an addict chasing heroin dreams. 

It’s dangerous. To lose your head, to lose your way. But Jada’s lips taste like starlight and secrets. Her tongue is wet with forbidden knowledge, with treason and betrayal. 

Hermione kisses her back, with a fevered hunger. They collide, with all the energy of a universe born anew, and their fates are sealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To my hardcore Bellamione shippers; never fear! This is still Bellamione endgame. We're going to do her right this time around, I promise. But this fic may be a bit longer than my typical fics, I have so many ideas! I say "may" loosely, because I like to change my mind. A lot. Either way, there is Bellamione goodness right around the corner, just be patient.
> 
> If I could sum it up, I would use the immortal words of Chris Brown; These hoes ain't loyal.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey all.
> 
> Quick trigger warning for the latter half of the chapter. There is implied sexual abuse during Jada's perspective. It is very brief, but it is uncomfortable and it is mentioned, so if that particular subject negatively impacts your mental health, please give it a pass. 
> 
> It's ungodly early in my part of the world, so everyone have a beautiful day. Or if your day is done, have a lovely night!
> 
> P.S. To all the seditious turnip lovers out there...I have my eyes on you. 🧐

“Now, Wallace,” Bellatrix is saying. “Would I lie to you?” 

Wallace, tied to a chair and gagged, can only wheeze into the rag shoved between his teeth and give a goggle eyed stare. 

Bellatrix, smiling warmly, helps herself to his scotch. 

Wallace Toadstool’s Sundries is a little shop by the sea side. To the uninitiated, it looks like little more than a fishing shack, untidy and leaning to one side. You walk in and there be Wallace Toadstool himself, the absolute legend, wearing a dirty pair of dungarees and dribbling green snot from his nose. He mans the register with steadfast temperance and admirable patience. No coin goes uncounted and no item is left forgotten by an absent minded customer. 

If you were the uncharitable sort, you might take one look at Wallace and gag. He smells of old fish and mushrooms and his eyes have the dull look of a man not possessing full faculties. But Wallace is a clever snake. Far too clever for you, to be sure. 

For below the floorboards is an entirely different world. Stolen wands, illicit potions, dark objects of dubious and terrifying origins. Wallace is a literal wizard, able to produce anything your black heart might desire. 

Tumbler of scotch in hand, Bellatrix makes herself comfortable. She kicks off her sodden boots, thrusting her feet towards the fire. She frowns, wiggling her toe through a hole in her left sock. 

“What was I saying?” she murmurs, sniffing the scotch. 

Wallace grunts. 

“Right you are,” Bellatrix exclaims. “All good relationships are founded on trust. And communication, communication is key. If you don’t work out your problems, why, someone is liable to end up dead. You understand that, don’t you, Wally Bear?” 

He blinks his fishy eyes and Bellatrix shows him approving grin. With a salute, she knocks back the scotch in one go. She gasps, wincing as her eyes water. 

“That...that is troll swill, you diabolical fiend. You drink that?” She leans forward. “Sorry, I didn’t hear that. Can you speak up, Wally, my kind and generous friend?” 

He struggles, eyes popping out of his skull. 

Bellatrix gives a bored sigh, sagging back into the chair. “Fine, fine,” she says. “Have it your way.” 

She disappears the gag with a lazy roll of her wrist. 

“Hoor! Ye dozy cunt! Ye howlin’ fannybaws!” 

Bellatrix frowns. “I’m going to take a breath and when I have, I’m going to let you try again. Just once more. Before I strangle you with your intestines.” 

Wallace clears his throat. He speaks again and his voice is clear, as succinct as an advert man. 

“Sorry about that,” he says. “That was Mr. Barclay. He doesn’t care to be stuffed.” 

Mr. Barclay is a very old, very angry Scotsman who lives behind Wallace’s right eye. But that is a story for another time. 

Bellatrix flashes a toothy smile. “I apologize to the honorable Mr. Barclay. Shall I ask my question again?” 

“I heard you.” Wallace spits on the floor, shifting his bulk. “Blonde doll, one eye, deep anger problems. I know such a girl. Bit after your time, she was.” 

“And?”

“Macnair by name. Parents are dead. Brother is dead. Murdered. She did the job.” 

“You don’t say.” 

“Aye. Ever seen a Muggle chainsaw?” 

“Ouch.” 

Wallace nods. “Mad as soup sandwich, that one. Chopped them to bits and burned the old homestead to the ground. She was up Azkaban until shortly before the Battle of Hogwarts. She was let go when the Dark Lord took control. Disappeared after the Battle. Connected with a few leftovers. I hear bits of her here and there. Though, I must say, she’s not the one you should be worried about. She’s a symptom, not the cause.” 

“Is that so?” 

“She’s a pet, a leashed bitch.” 

“And who, pray tell, is holding her leash?” 

Here Wallace hesitates. Bellatrix tuts, snaps her fingers. There is a crack, Wallace’s thumb snapping back with a stomach churning crunch. It hangs at a disjointed angle and he gasps, his eyes rolling into the back of his head.

“Now, now,” Bellatrix says. “We were doing so well. We can’t stop now.” 

Grimacing, Wallace opens his eyes. He sneers, showing stained teeth. “You’re a piece of work, Black. Can’t you just ask nicely?” 

Bellatrix bats her eyelashes. She lifts a finger and Wallace spits again.

“Fine, fine. Candyman. They call him Candyman. He’s a child murderer from way back. Been with the Dark Lord since the beginning. Loyal to the end, that one. Whisper is, he’s gathering souls. Even worse, he has his eyes on The Three.” 

“The Three?”

“Potter and his toadies. The ginger and the girl.” 

“Why?” 

“Dunno.” 

“Let me get this straight; child murderer, regular old nutcase, killing Death Eaters, harvesting their souls. Possibly plotting the death of three of the most influential people breathing. That the footnote?” 

“I know how it sounds -” 

“Perfectly plausible.” She is Bellatrix Black. Anything is possible in her world. “Now. Where are they?” 

“I don’t bloody well know that.” 

“Wallace. You’re breaking my heart. Come on.” 

“I. Don’t. Know.” 

Bellatrix lets loose a long suffering sigh. She jerks her wrist and Wallace’s broken finger snaps back into place. She drops a pouch fat with coin on a corner table and wiggles her fingers in goodbye, raising the hood of her cloak to cover her face. 

“Hey!” Wallace shouts, rocking the chair he is bound to. “You’re not leaving me like this, are you?” 

“You're a wizard, Wallace. Figure it out.” 

He screams as she ascends the stairs, slamming the trap door behind herself. 

Hermione doesn’t know what to expect when she opens her door at 3AM. It’s certainly not Bellatrix. But Bellatrix is what she gets, all wrapped up in a cloak, wet as a drowned cat, nose bright red with cold. 

“Hello,” Bellatrix says, as if she’s been invited round for a cuppa. She sniffles, brushing a wet strand of hair from her eyes, flashing a weak smile. 

Hermione stares. When Bellatrix smiles, her cheeks dimple, and her eyes glow and she looks - she looks - oh, shit. 

Wordless, Hermione steps back, opening the door. Holding herself with far too much dignity for a woman sodden to her knickers, Bellatrix swaggers herself inside. She drips on the welcome mat and looks around. 

“Ehm, can I take your, uh...yeah.” She accepts Bellatrix’s rain drenched cloak. She gives it a good drying spell and hangs it up. Turning her attention to Bellatrix, she notes that the witch obviously has no intent on drying herself and sighs. “Towel?” 

“That would be lovely.”

“Please don’t move from the mat.” 

“Fuck sake’s, Granger. I’m not an animal. Now get that towel, would you? I feel pneumonia setting in.” She shivers for good measure. 

Eyes narrowed, Hermione considers tossing the witch out face first. Bellatrix, with the cunning of a Slytherin, recognizes her position has become precarious and widens her dark eyes. She sneezes, giving a loud sniffle. Hermione rolls her eyes. She sets off towards the bathroom, returning not a moment later with a magically warmed towel and a box of tissues. Giving Bellatrix a moment to pull herself together, she crosses to the kitchen and puts on the kettle to boil. 

When she returns, Bellatrix is standing in front of a bookshelf. She is naked, hands on her hips as she examines the shelf’s contents. She turns around as she hears Hermione approach, smiling innocently. 

Hermione chokes. She chokes until she coughs. And then she coughs until she’s sure she’s going to die.

“Granger, pull it together,” Bellatrix says, walloping her on the back. 

Physics being what they are, gravity being the rare beauty she is, Hermione is treated to an eyeful. It does not improve her condition. 

Gasping and waving her hand in front of her face, Hermione seizes the blanket draped across the back of the couch. It is bright blue and decorated with unicorns. She wheezes, thrusting it at Bellatrix. 

The very naked and confused witch laughs suddenly. “Oh. Right. My tits are out. Sorry about that, Granger. Corset was sticking.” 

“Please, for the love of Merlin,” Hermione gasps, blinking tears from her eyes. “Cover yourself, woman.” 

“Alright, keep your nipples on.” Bellatrix wraps herself in the blanket. She buries her nose in the material, inhaling deeply. It smells obscenely good, like sleep and books and rainy days beside a warm fire. 

She sighs, her eyes closing. 

She’s jarred to attention by a firm hand on her bicep, guiding her to the couch. Face still red, Hermione gives her a shove, bouncing her down on the couch cushions. Bellatrix blinks. 

“Moving a bit fast, aren’t we?” Bellatrix says. “Well, I’m game. Shall I just take this back off?” 

She moves to toss the blanket off and Hermione quickly covers her eyes. She peeks between her fingers and Bellatrix gives her a wolfish grin. 

“You’re too easy, pet.” 

“Don’t call me that.” 

“Sorry. Granger. Are you a virgin?” 

Hermione splutters. 

“I’ve never encountered someone who had that particular reaction to my body, is all. That fit, am I?” 

“I am not a virgin,” Hermione says, teeth gritted. 

“Oh. Well good to know.” Bellatrix winks. 

The tea kettle whistles. It, in fact, saves Bellatrix’s life, Hermione suddenly too distracted to make good on her murderous thoughts. 

Winded and weary, Hermione beats a retreat to the kitchen. She takes her time with the tea things, still plotting the murder of a very cocky, infuriating witch. She adds biscuits to the tray. Takes them off. Those are the good ones, after all. Her favorite. 

She makes to walk off, but sighs, returns the biscuits to the tray. 

It’s all for nothing. Curled on the end of the couch, Crookshanks warming her feet, Bellatrix has fallen asleep. 

Hermione could scream. Except, Bellatrix is fucking adorable. Her hair is sticking out, her face buried deep into the blanket. She murmurs in her sleep, nestling deeper. 

Ah, but her head looks uncomfortable on that hard couch arm. Hermione retrieves a pillow from the bedroom. She carefully lifts Bellatrix’s head, slipping the pillow under. Just as carefully rests her head back down, tucking the unicorn blanket around her. She gives Crookshanks a stroke and yawns hugely, stretching until her back pops. She drags her feet to bed, rubbing her sore arm. 

Just for a moment, right before she slips off, she thinks of Bellatrix. She lazily stretches her arm to the cold side of the bed, running a palm over the sheets. Vaguely, she wonders what it would be like it would be like if Bellatrix were beside her, warming her skin, breathing her air. 

She falls asleep with her on her mind and her dreams are sweet. 

Jada has known Candyman for most of her life. 

Only, she doesn’t call him Candyman. She calls him Father. 

Years ago, a man stopped her as she walked these very streets. He was well dressed, handsome, his smile charismatic. 

“Dangerous area,” he said, showing her his teeth. His hand was firm on her elbow. “Let me walk you home.” 

She gave him a chance. She told him no. He insisted. So she killed him. A knife to the groin, a sharp twist and a shove and he was left to bleed out among the trash. 

“Uncivilized,” her father would have sneered. “Killing like a common Muggle.” 

But she likes it. It gives her a head rush, sharper than any magic. They die slower, for one. None of that Avada Kedavra and into the skirts of death you go, shit. You’re allowed to savor the moment, to sip the bloodstains from the air. It makes her feel impossibly alive, as if she will never die. 

That’s what she really fears. Death. Even more than that, to be forgotten. To fade from memory, like she never existed. 

There is always a way. For those willing to sacrifice, there is immortality. There is an eternity of stars, dangling at your fingertips, warm to your touch. 

But of course, Father wouldn’t approve. My Lord this, my Lord that. Droning on incessantly about what He will do when He rises again. 

But it’s not old Voldy he’s thinking of. It’s the children. All the beautiful children. 

Her mouth twists with disgust, bitterness like blood on her tongue. There are more, more souls. And at the end of that list, dear old Dad, waiting. She takes comfort in that. 

It was he that took her eyes. Punishment for her inadequacy. Punishment for the lack of a cock between her legs. It irked him to no end, that his glorious seed couldn’t produce a male. A beautiful boy, in his own image. A lovely boy to sit on his lap and pluck the candy from his pockets. 

Her eyes were blue. When her father’s anger was spent and flagged, they were white and sightless. How she clawed herself bloody, screaming, howling. Edwin Macnair, the man who should have been her father, taught her to see again. With magic. With magic and blood. Her first kill. A Muggle, plucked from the streets. Nameless. 

When she killed her brother, she took his eye. Only the one. The other was useless, as mangled as the left side of his face. It was the same blue of her old eyes. 

Their mother’s eyes. Blue and bright and cold. A winter sky, bitten with ice. 

The only thing that bound her to her brother; their mother’s blood, thin and useless. Weak. 

She learned quickly to cast off her blood. To deny frailty. She lived in empty spaces and echoing halls and she thrived. She stuffed herself with blood and magic until her veins sang with it. 

At her father’s house, an elf takes her coat and she is shown to the dining room. He sits at the head of an empty table. The steak on his plate floats in bloody juices. There is a glass of brandy at hand and the candles give his cheeks deep hollows. 

The Dark Lord commanded it, her mother had told her. The Dark One needed progeny, loyal soldiers, bound in blood. And so his lieutenants were dispatched to breed, no matter how distasteful they found the act. Edwin Macnair was never told. It wasn’t for him to know. But only two years later, he had a son, a blue eyed boy with his nose and his hard mouth. 

Father does not look up from his meat. He chews slowly, sucking the blood from his teeth. 

“Well?” He says after a time. He doesn’t look at her. 

“Like a well oiled machine,” she says, smiling. 

He grunts, cutting his steak. “I grow tired of waiting.” 

She doesn’t reply. 

“How many more?” 

“Two.” 

“And The Three?” 

That’s where she’s done it. A flaw in the logic, a deviation in her plan. 

Hermione. 

Her plan had been terribly simple. Get hired, get close, gut the bitch. And on from there, up her little ladder of friends. 

When she was a little girl, before she knew the Candyman, her mother read her each night. They were stories of love and adventure, of daring and bravery and kind hearts. They were lies. Propaganda for sheep. Fall into line, sweetlings. Prepare yourself to be beneficial. All of it designed to keep you complacent, to keep you under someone else’s thumb as you searched, as you yearned, as you dreamed and lived to see those dreams wither and die. 

But somehow, after that night in the atrium, as she slipped into a dark sleep, she dreamed again. 

How can she, wicked and unclean as she is, kill those dreams? How could she snuff that flame, destroy the woman who made her heart beat, her thoughts sing and murmur with sweet longing. 

She could not. She would not. She would replace The Three. 

But the Candyman need not know. 

She smiles, watching as he dips his fingers into the blood on his plate. “They are mine already,” she says. 

“See it done.” A dismissal. 

She turns, slipping into the shadows. 

Soon, she thinks, her anger violent and twisting. Oh, so very soon.


	7. Chapter 7

Wrapped in morning sun and white sheets, Bellatrix is easy on the eyes.

Palm tucked under her cheek, Hermione extends a hand, hovering it over Bellatrix's chest. She is near enough to feel the sleepy heat rolling off of her, but not close enough to touch. She watches her eyelids flicker with dreams, her breathing shallow.

She is accustomed to solitude. An empty bed, coffee for one. A single place setting. No one using all the hot water. No one leaving the cap off the toothpaste. No crumbs on the counter, no bread crusts left behind like sad little carcasses. 

As such, she expects to be alone in bed. She wakes quickly and easily. There is no bleary fumbling, no sleepy eyed blinks. She is electricity, a current flipped and buzzing; her eyes open, her mind snapping to awareness, quickly picking up the last conscious thought it remembers.

Bellatrix. 

She shifts, giving a languid stretch. But how strange...there is an intense heat against her back, a weight over her hip. Carefully, neck tingling, she looks over her shoulder. Bellatrix, mouth hanging open, gives a snore and snuffle, wiggles her hips closer. Unaware of the thunderstruck woman staring at her, she flings an arm over Hermione’s chest. 

Hermione is equal parts infuriated, touched, and horrified. She is very aware of Bellatrix’s skin against her, of her hand pushed up the back of her shirt, stealing the heat from between her shoulder blades. It is so sweet that it hurts.

She can’t say how long she stays like that, in that bubble of warmth and quiet, watching Bellatrix sleep. By the time she rouses herself, the sun has moved and she remembers what day it is. Reluctantly, she untangles her legs from Bellatrix and finds her way to the shower.

Some time later, Bellatrix is awakened by a loud bang and a curse. 

She cracks an eye, finds herself with a view of Granger. Her face is screwed up in pain and she clutches her knee, hissing. She is dressed for a day at Mungos. She looks so perfect and neatly wrapped that Bellatrix feels a real urge to untidy her. She wants to pull her down into the bed and climb on top of her. She wants to rip off that ridiculous tie and bite her lip and push her hands up under her shirt and…

She groans, pulling the blanket over her head. 

“Bellatrix,” Hermione whispers.

Why is she whispering in her own home? 

“Bellatrix! Come out from under there.” 

“No,” Bellatrix says. She tightens the blanket around herself. 

“Please, Bellatrix. I’m late!” 

“Don’t care.” She doesn’t want to look at her. If she looks at her, she’s going to kiss her, and touch her and then the day is done for them both. Maybe the entire week, the next month. 

She snorts to herself. As if. 

“I don’t have time for this.” Hermione growls. 

Growls! Merlin in a two piece bikini but wouldn’t she love to hear that next to her ear. Preferably with Hermione’s hand between her - 

The blanket is snatched from her head. She protests loudly as she is pulled to her feet.. Hermione does not reply, her gaze firmly on Bellatrix’s face as she roughly shoves her into a t-shirt. They both look at the sweatpants in Hermione’s hands. Bellatrix raises an eyebrow. Hermione coughs. Seemingly unprepared to tackle that particular task, she shoves the pants into Bellatrix’s chest and walks away, snagging up her pile of discarded clothes on her way. 

“Hey, those are mine,” Bellatrix says, hopping as she tries to pull up the sweatpants and follow Hermione at the same time.

“I don’t have time for you to lace your corset, Bellatrix. Let’s go.” 

“What, no breaky?”

“Bellatrix.” 

Bellatrix frowns. “Merlin, you’re a grumpy goblin in the morning.” 

Hermione says nothing, her expression bland as she waits by the door. 

Then they’re out in the air, breathing the damp fog of the early morning. Bellatrix shivers, goosebumps breaking out along her arms. The clothes she wears are obviously meant for someone with quite a bit less leg. The sweatpants end well above her ankle, her tits are practically falling out of the tiny t-shirt, and Hermione hasn’t given her any shoes. 

Hermione is oblivious to her discomfort, fumbling with her keys. A curse and a jiggle of the handle later, they are taking the stairs down two at a time. 

“Granger,” Bellatrix says. 

“What?” 

“About last night -” 

She is interrupted by a shape forming out of the fog. She feels a ripple, a dark surge, and she tightens, reaching for her wand. The wand currently tangled among her things clutched in Hermione’s arms. 

Tall is the first word that comes to her mind. The woman that steps out of the fog towers over even Bellatrix. She wears a quizzical smile, her gaze shifting between Bellatrix and Hermione. Her strange eyes seem to linger most on Bellatrix’s clothes, or lack thereof. She eyes her bare feet.

Her eyes. One blue, the other amber. Full lips, a nose that looks as if it’s been broken and badly healed. Pale hair, nearly white. The way she stands sets Bellatrix on edge, balanced, light on her feet, a tension to her, as if ready for violence. 

“Hermione,” the stranger says. She grins, holds up a bakery bag. She gives it a shake. “I brought you a nibble. Sorry, I didn’t bring enough for your...friend.” 

“Oh. Uhm, this is -” 

“Bellatrix Black,” Bella says, stepping forward. She wears her most charming smile and extends her hand. “And you are?” 

The stranger’s smile is cold, her eyes colder. She takes Bellatrix’s hand. Her palm is smooth, the fingers fine boned. “Charlie Steward.” 

Bellatrix doesn’t let go of her hand. She holds it firmly, looking into her eyes. “Ah, lovely. Been friends long?” This last bit directed to Hermione. 

“We work at Mungos together,” Charlie supplies.

“Ah. And before that?” 

Charlie laughs, her teeth sharp. That amber eye, cut with green, seems to glow. “Aren’t you an inquisitive little thing.” 

Little? Little! 

“Right,” Hermione says, breaking their spell. 

They part, their hands dropping away. Bellatrix notes a flush on Hermione’s cheeks as she passes her clothes and her wand over. Her stomach gives a twist and she darts a look at Legs McMurderface. 

Who is making her blush like that, she wonders. Her or Murder Eyes?

She bristles at the thought, her stomach giving a greasy churn.

I am not jealous, she tells herself. She is above that. Too old, too wise, and too good looking. 

But Murder Eyes is smirking at her. 

She is younger, curvy in places Bellatrix is hard. Face prettier, mouth not as harsh. No lifetime of baggage and flaws dragging behind her like bodies wrapped in plastic. Her skin is smooth, untouched as yet by the damaging fingers of time. She is a lit cigarette, smoldering, glowing.

Bellatrix is sure she bathes in the blood of virgins.

She looks over and Hermione is watching her, a little crease between her eyes as she frowns. Bellatrix wants to press her thumb to the crease, to smooth it, to feel the flutter of her lashes over her fingers. 

“Bellatrix,” Hermione begins.

Murder Eyes clears her throat. “Sorry, but aren’t we a bit behind?”

Hermione doesn’t look at her. “Lunch?” She says. “I would very much like to hear what you were going to say earlier.”

Bellatrix nearly crows. She settles for a wide grin. 

“You like finger foods, right?” Hermione asks. There’s laughter in her eyes, one corner of her mouth quirked up in a smirk. 

“I do.” She can’t stop herself from stepping closer. “I like finger foods the best.” 

“Hermione,” Murder Eyes says. Her expression is suddenly blank, her gaze cool. “Can we go?”

“It was nice to meet you,” Bellatrix calls after them. 

She doesn’t bother to hide her smirk. She watches until they are swallowed by the fog. Safely out of sight, she pumps her fist.

Bellatrix 1, Murder Eyes 0.

It is exactly 11AM when all hell breaks loose. 

Hermione is nose deep in a dusty tome, her wand in one hand, a beaker of spitting purple potion in the other. She is so engrossed in what she is reading that she doesn’t hear the shouts at first. It takes a moment for them to sink through her haze, but when they do, her head snaps up. 

The Herbology work floor is crawling with Aurors. Their wands are out, the sounds of their boots harsh echoing across the vast room. She spots a familiar lanky frame, tufts of black hair and flashing spectacles. 

Harry spins as he hears a door crash open. 

“What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” Hermione fumes. Spotting an Auror sniffing a plant, she shoos the man away. She turns back to Harry, her expression thunderous. 

He swallows. That look takes him back to the old days. He seems to remember that particular glower preceding furious tongue lashings. 

“Harry Potter,” Hermione says. “Care to explain.” 

“Eh…” 

“We’re here for your leggy girlfriend,” Bellatrix says, appearing at Harry’s side. “Jada Macnair?” 

Hermione stills. Harry, watching her closely, catches the flicker of panic in her eyes. 

“Hermione -”

“What has she done? Do you have proof? Or are you making assumptions based on her past?” 

“Assumptions!” Bellatrix laughs. “Pet. She murdered her family. No assuming to it.” 

“What? No!” 

“The poison I brought you? All her. She’s been murdering for months. You, wee Potter here, and Weasley are at the top of her list.” 

“Look,” Harry says. He pulls a file from his robes, flipping it open. A picture of Jada sneers up at them. She is filthy, hair knotted and tangled, her mouth and nose bloody. She holds a prisoner number in front of her chest. Her right eye is blue and bloodshot, nearly swollen closed. Her left is milky white and sightless, a dead organ in living tissue. “Black here only recently got her name. She brought it to me this morning and Azkaban was quick to owl over her records.” 

“Hermione.” Bellatrix’s voice is soft. She watches the young woman as she clutches the mugshot, her face stricken. “Is she here?” 

Hermione’s back straightens. Her expression clears and she looks at them with dark eyes. She directs her gaze to Harry. 

“You’re wrong,” she says. 

“Mione -”

“Harry. Please. Whatever it is you think she’s done, she hasn’t done it.” 

“She will have a chance to speak. I promise.”

“With a dozen Aurors pointing wands in her face?” 

“She’s dangerous,” Bellatrix snaps. “You daft woman, can you listen? We don’t have time for this. Where is she?” 

“Looking for me?” 

And there she stands, shoulder against the doorway, eyes glowing. She sweeps her gaze over the room, taking everything in with a glance. 

“All of this for me? I’m flattered. You really shouldn’t have, though. Now I’ll have to kill you all. Such a shame.” 

There is no grand speech, no witty back and forth. Barely haven spoken, Jada snaps her arm out, a spell on her lips. She screams with fury, her words soaked in hatred. Magic rips from her wand, the floor trembling as it breaks apart, spitting fire and smoke. A hand thrusts up from the crumbling blackness, a thin, skeletal creature clawing up from the broken floor. It is a hunched thing, spines lining it’s back, long lank hair dripping into its silver eyes. It hisses, fists clenching and unclenching as it turns to survey the room. There is a chitter, a scrape, more of the things hauling themselves from the rubble.

“What are those?” Harry says, eyes wide. 

“Old magic, boy,” Bellatrix snarls. She seizes both Hermione and Harry by their collars, dragging them behind a desk. She shoves them roughly to the floor, crouching with them. “They don’t teach you that in Hogwarts.” 

The room goes black. 

No light. Just sound; heavy breathing, the scrape of shoes, the skitter of claws. 

A scream, sharp and high. It is cut off abruptly. There is a wet crunch, a gasp. 

Next to Hermione, Bellatrix lets out a breath. A blink later, there is a blue orb floating floating over their faces, casting their skin in a ghostly glow. 

“How do we kill them?” Harry asks. 

Bellatrix’s grin is gruesome in the ghost light. “Do you like Halloween, Potter?” 

“What?” 

“Halloween. Do you like it?” 

“What does that have to do with anything?” 

Another scream, closer this time. 

“Just answer the question, Harry,” Hermione hisses. 

“It’s, uh, alright?”

“I love Halloween,” Bellatrix says. 

A blast of wand fire, crackling green and exploding against the floor. A vague shape beyond the ghost light, a black form scuttling over the floor. 

Bellatrix gives a nostalgic smile, eyes closing. “I especially love Halloween movies. The very very first one I ever saw was a classic; Night of the Living Dead.” 

“Oh. That is a good one.” 

“What she’s saying Harry,” Hermione says. She stows her wand and reaches up to fumble on the worktop above her head. She comes back with a pair of scissors. “Is aim for the head.” 

“Bingo,” Bellatrix says with a ghastly smile. 

“Bloody hell,” Harry groans. 

“But first, let’s brighten it up some, hm?” 

Bellatrix spins, the ghost light trailing behind her. She thrusts her hands skyward and fire pours from her wand, exploding in bright balls of flame. The floor shifts and trembles as they crash down, exploding like dying suns. 

In the light shimmering from the flames, Harry and Hermione see the bodies littering the floor. Over half of the Aurors are dead, their necks wrenched, their chests bubbling blood. Jada’s creatures crawl over the walls, dangle from the ceiling, their eyes bright and flashing, their teeth bloody. 

Jada herself stands at the center of the chaos, shielding herself from Bellatrix’s fire with a nimbus of magic. She laughs, her head thrown back, red magic crackling over her fingers. 

Hermione can’t look away. She shoves the scissors into Harry’s hands, drawing her wand. 

“Get to work,” she says, and she leaps up, takes off running. 

Harry stares at the scissors, confounded. Scoffing, he tosses them over his shoulder. 

“You’re a wizard, Harry,” he says to himself. “You blow shit up. Not stabby stab stab.” 

He launches himself up, slashing his wand at the nearest creature. It screams, skin bubbling. It explodes with a quiet pop and a scatter of flesh and organs. 

Picking liver from his hair, Harry gives a roar. 

“C’mon you shits! I’m Harry fucking Potter, bitches!” 

The creatures chitter, furious. In a single coordinated movement, they converge, a mass of bone and flesh and gnashing teeth. 

Across the room, Bellatrix turns as Hermione rushes past her. She reaches for her arm, intending to snatch her back, but the witch is quick, intent on a dead rush. Jada spots her and releases the shield charm surrounding her. 

“Can’t we talk about this?” she asks. 

She takes a step forward, but is stopped short by a bolt of light to the torso. She is flung back violently, her back slammed into a nearby desk. She slides to the floor, gasping and clutching her chest. She tries to move, lets out a yelp as sharp pain drives her back down.

She looks up at Hermione, face twisted. “My fucking tits.” She spits blood from her mouth. Knees wobbling, she pulls herself to her feet, leaning heavily against the desk. “Is that a no, then?”

Hermione doesn’t reply. She stabs with her wand, intending to immobilize her, but Jada surprises her, throwing her weight forward and catching her around the waist. 

They hit the floor together, tangling. 

Jada’s fingers wrap around Hermione’s wrist, bending it back until she screams and drops her wand. A spell howls and Jada ducks, pressing her face into Hermione’s neck. 

“Hold her still, Granger!” Bellatrix screams. 

“Like fuck,” Jada scoffs. 

Tucking her arms under Hermione’s shoulders, she pulls her tight against her front and rolls them behind a desk, away from Bellatrix’s rapid spells. She gives a huff, holding herself up, her hair tickling Hermione’s cheeks. 

She looks at Hermione’s lips. They are dark with blood, bruised. Jada sighs.

“You know, I imagined this quite differently,” she says, grinding down with her hips. “I had an image in my head. You, me, naked and sweaty. You would be shy at first, but you would come around after a good tonguing.” 

“Hermione!” Bellatrix screams. 

A ways away, something explodes and Harry laughs. 

“Take that, shit bag!” He yells. 

“I’m not shy,” Hermione says. Right before she headbutts Jada in the nose. 

There is a crunch, like gravel grinding together and Jada reels back, holding her face. Hermione presses the advantage, twisting her hips and throwing her off. She gets to her knees, scrambling for her wand. Only to yell as Jada’s fingers twist in her hair, yanking her back. Knuckles crack across her teeth and she reels, the world greying at the edges. 

Bleeding and cursing, Jada hauls her to her feet. She slams her spine into the desk that formerly hid them, giving her a slap for good measure. 

Hermione’s head lolls. Her eyes, like a shutter over a camera, capture everything in stills; Bellatrix twisting, her wand a blur as she fends off the creatures leaping from the walls; Harry running to her side, his laugh manic. 

Jada touches her face. Using her thumbs, she wipes the blood from her mouth. She kicks her legs apart to stand between them, pressing as close as she can. 

“This was not the plan,” she says, dropping their foreheads together. “Do you believe me?” 

Hermione nods. Because she does. Against all logic, she believes her. 

“I was going to let you go, you know.” 

“No you weren’t.” 

Jada smiles. “Maybe you’re right. But I would have been gentle with you. None of this mess.” 

“That’s comforting.” 

Looking into her eyes, Jada wraps a hand around her throat. “The thing is, I think I love you.” 

She kisses her. Hard, twisting their mouths together. Because it’s the last time, the finale to their brief, bright burn. They gasp together, pained, both of body and heart. Jada touches the tip of her tongue with her own…

And she stabs her. 

Hermione stiffens against her, gasping into her mouth, her hand jolting up to lock around Jada’s bloody fingers. They hold the knife together, Hermione pulling, Jada pushing, twisting it. 

“This hurts me more than it does you,” Jada says, her lips curling as she gives the knife a final thrust. 

Hermione’s face is contorted, agonized, her back arched as she struggles not to scream. 

Jada kisses her eyelids. “I would take your eyes if I had the time. So you would always be with me. Shame. They are so lovely. I think that particular shade would really bring out my personality.” 

She withdraws the knife. Hermione finally screams, her hands moving to hold her stomach, shocked by the heat of the blood pouring out of her. 

Jada gives her a crooked smile. “I really wish I could hold your hand, help you through to the end. But it looks like your friends are nearly done. They’ll have to do. Goodbye, Hermione. I won’t forget you.” 

And she is gone. 

The world is the color of blood and it is so cold. The kind of cold that gets into your bones, chews you ragged with frosted teeth. The kind of cold that lingers, even on hot summer days; burning under the sun and you are ice, nary a drip down your surface as the light of all life bears down on you. It’s the cold of death, the certainty of the end. 

Harry’s face. She can’t feel his hands, but she sees them, pale as they press against her stomach. Barely a moment and they are black with her blood. 

Harry died once. He said it wasn’t altogether unpleasant. There was light and Dumbledore...

This is unpleasant. This is agony. 

Another face, spinning above her, collapsing. 

Bellatrix. 

Regret, bitter bile on her tongue, twists through her, sharper than the knife that ripped her open. 

There it is; her fear. 

Death comes for everyone, she knows. One moment you’re thinking and eating and loving and dreaming, and then you’re not. You’re gone. She can accept it. She must.

But she can’t stand to feel this. It’s worse than the dying. To know she has left behind a possibility, something so vast and hopeful and good....the enormity of it awes her. It breaks her heart. 

Because she’s done. She can’t go back. There is no magic to repair it, no time-turner to right the balance of her world. She is finished. 

She is dying and she never fell in love. She thinks she could have. She should have.

What a silly little fool. 

Darkness pools behind her eyes. But at the end of it, there is a light. 

Harry Potter is crying. He is covered in the blood of his best friend and it is drying, cracking on his arms and hands. 

“Let her go,” Bellatrix says. 

He shakes his head. He can’t. The blood...all the blood. 

“Harry.” 

She has never called him by his first name. Not with that gentle voice, those dark, understanding eyes drilling into his. The compassion in them astounds him, makes him tremble. But there is fear in them, too, desperation. 

“We’re in Mungos. We can get her help. But you have to let go.” 

He looks down at Hermione's face. He can barely see for the tears in his eyes. They are hot, searing him. 

It can’t end like this. Not here. They’ve been through a war together. Fifteen years in each other’s space. Sharing everything, every joy, every burden, every fear. She was always there. Even when Ron left, she was there. Next to him. When they were twisted beyond themselves, battling and hating and spitting bile...she was there. 

Bellatrix moves his hands. He lets her. 

The boy out of the way, Bellatrix snatches Hermione up against her chest. She doesn’t look at her. She can’t. She is afraid and the loss is nipping at her, whispering in her ears, threatening to drown her. 

It isn’t too late. Can’t be. 

Please. 

She runs. Hermione’s head bouncing on her shoulder, her limbs loose, too loose, no life to them. She is cold, none of the warmth Bellatrix knows as her. 

Once upon a bad old time, Bellatrix Lestrange met a girl and two boys. They were brought to her trembling, but their eyes were fierce, their truth, to one another, to the whole fucking world, was steadfast. Lestrange looked at them, and she knew there was hope. She knew that the world would change, that every step leading to that moment would be justified. 

Lestrange was a beast. She was a servant, a slave, a bound thing. Bella Black was dead, and Lestrange was alive. She lived so that one day Bella Black’s sisters, and her sisters’ children, could breathe without fear. She fought so that they could live in a new world, a future as bright as their souls. 

Poor Bella Black was doomed from the start. 

And so, when faced with a sobbing girl, an enemy, Lestrange did the thing she was bred to do; she destroyed that girl. She ruined her. She would have killed her, easily and with a smile.

But there was something left of Bella Black. Some tiny sliver, tucked between Lesstrange’s ribs. It was her who kept the girl safe. Later, it was her watching the girl become a woman, and the woman become a titan. Somewhere along the way, in between watching her glower and argue and laugh her way through life, she fell in love with her. 

Bella Black was a hopeless romantic, after all. 

Bella Black would never let the woman she loved die. Not as long as she drew breath. She would give her the final beat of her heart even if it only meant she wouldn’t live to see her die.

Pansy Parkinson hates being a doctor. She hates people. She hates bedside manner. She hates long shifts. She hates comfortable, but unfashionable shoes. She hates idiots.

Really, she hates everything. 

She is pondering her hatred for all things not her and sipping black tea when the door at the end of the hallway flies open. She chokes on her drink, spitting it all over her crisp white coat. 

Bellatrix Black is staring at her with terrifying eyes. She is covered in blood, smelling of smoke and fleshy bits. And clutched in her arms is Hermione Granger. Limp and pale as the grave, she isn’t moving. 

Pansy, in spite of her supreme hatred, has a soft spot for intelligent Gryffindors with bad attitudes. And so, rather than ducking behind the nearest door, she takes Hermione from Bellatrix’s arms and calls for help, rushing her to the nearest free bed. 

“Get out,” she tells Bellatrix. 

For once in her life, the witch listens. 

Pansy whistles when she finds the wound. Glancing at Hermione’s face, she takes out her wand. 

“I hope you know I am missing a very important date for this,” Pansy says, cleaning away the blood. “Third date, actually. You know what that means. Bom chicka bow wow. Am right or am I right?” 

The wound clean, she runs a quick spell, peering at Hermione’s insides. “But for you, Granger, I will pass up very possibly average sex. What would they say, after all, if I didn’t save your life? Oh, those Slytherins, always having it out for Gryffindors. Blah blah blah.” 

She chances a glance at Hermione’s still face, her gaze softening. “Don’t worry. You’re in good hands. You could be in better hands if you would like to repay me afterwards.” She winces, setting to work. “Too far? Sorry. Hopefully you don’t remember this little conversation. At least, pretend that you don’t, right?”

Just then, the door opens, nurses flooding into the room. 

Pansy Parkinson, hater of all things, sneers and begins barking orders.


	8. Chapter 8

Bellatrix has never ridden in a car. She finds it to be a singularly unpleasant experience. Especially with Andromeda driving. 

There must be rules, surely. Muggles have rules for everything. Simple, logical things. Speed limits. Stop signs. Turning signals. Don’t fiddle with the radio and keep your fucking beady eyes on the road! None of which Andromeda seems keen on doing. 

Bellatrix, pasty and clutching her seatbelt, thinks she might be sick. 

Bellatrix wanted a broom. But nooooo. 

“You cannot put a stabbed woman on the back of a broom,” Andromeda had scoffed. “Where’s your head at?” 

Bellatrix snorted. “I would never let her fall.” 

Andromeda sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Get in the car, Bella.” 

“But -” 

“Car, Bellatrix!” 

Tires screaming, Andromeda slams the car into Mungos’ visitor lot. Several heads turn to look at them and Bellatrix sinks low into her seat. 

Bellatrix Black. In a Muggle mini van. Fucking hell. 

They find Hermione near the visitor’s entrance, tucked into the hedges and smoking. With Parkinson. 

Bella’s eyes narrow. Oh, the little chippy looks very sickly, chuckling, a fag hanging between her lips like she’s James fucking Dean. 

Parkinson is the first to notice the Black sisters. She chokes, fanning the smoke from her face. She gives Hermione a nudge and Hermione winces as she is jostled, glaring. Her eyes follow Pansy’s and she freezes. She stubs the cigarette out quick like, all sheepish smiles and adorable eyes. 

Parkinson clears her throat. “Erm.”

“Hello,” Andy says, smiling like it’s her fucking birthday. “Hermione, luv. Banish that cancer stick and come along won’t you?” 

“And you a doctor,” Bellatrix says to Parkinson, shooting her a dirty look. “Shame.” 

Parkinson opens her mouth. She thinks about saying something sassy. She has the perfect line, a real killer of a scathing remark. Looking into Bellatrix’s flinty eyes, she thinks better of it. Her jaw clicks shut and she gives a tight smile. 

“Sorry,” Hermione whisper yells as she is steered away. 

“Owl me,” Parkinson mouths back. 

And then the real trial begins. Hermione tucked and belted into the backseat, she is informed that no, she will absolutely not be going back to her flat. 

“You’ll be staying with us,” Andromeda informs her, glancing at her in the rearview mirror. As she runs a stop light. 

“But -”

The next minute is spent on a heated debate. Hermione putting forward that she is a grown woman, very capable of tending herself. Andromeda putting forth no points, simply saying no. 

“Because I said so,” Andromeda says in reply to Hermione’s outrage, swinging a hard left. 

“Andy -” Hermione tries. 

“Don’t ‘Andy’ me, Hermione Jean Granger. I’m wise to you. You only use that name when you’re trying to weasel your way out of something.” 

“I don’t weasel!” 

Bella wrinkles her nose. “You kinda do.” 

“You’re in on this, are you?” 

“Anything for more time with you, pet.” Bellatrix’s smile is sly, her tone sultry. 

Hermione shuts her mouth. 

Andy’s reflection smiles in the rearview. “Would you like to stop for food?” 

“Merlin, yes.” 

McDonald’s is another first for Bellatrix. She says nothing as Hermione cranes her neck out the window, popping off a rapid fire order. She frowns at the food she is given. Driving off, ice rattling in their cups, she peers into the box of food in her lap. 

“Why is it called a Happy Meal?” she asks, poking something that smells like a heart attack waiting to happen. 

Leaning in from the back seat, Hermione shoves her hand into the box. She gives it a rifle. 

“Uhm, that’s my box,” Bellatrix says. 

Hermione smirks. “Is it now?” 

Bellatrix pales. Box...Walked right the hell into that one. 

Hermione’s hand comes out holding a brightly colored wrapper. And inside, Bellatrix soon discovers, is a delightful little plastic kitten. 

“Awww,” she says. “It’s darling.” 

Stealing a chip on her way back into her seat, Hermione gives a smug smile. “Happy Meal.” 

Indeed. 

“Eat your apple slices, Bella,” Andromeda says, cheeks chipmunked with more nuggets than a mouth should hold. 

Bellatrix does. Munching happily, she pops the plastic kitten on to the dashboard. 

Mood improved by hugely unhealthy, highly processed food, Hermione’s outlook is less bleak as she trails behind the Black sisters and into Andromeda’s home. She wastes no time in making herself comfortable, curling up on the end of Andy’s sofa. She gives a happy yell as a large ball of fluffy orange fur lands next to her head. 

“Crookshanks!” she cries, rubbing her cheek against the cat’s flank. 

Bellatrix hovers. Giving the pair a sly look, Andromeda makes herself scarce. 

“I,uhm, got some things from your flat,” Bellatrix says. She grimaces. “I hope you don’t mind. I just thought with, well, everything, you might like your own things around you. And I didn’t think you would appreciate your cat resorting to savagery to survive.” 

Crookshanks purs, butting his head into Bella’s thigh. 

“Thank you,” Hermione says. Her smile is genuine, a flicker of...something in her eyes. “That’s very thoughtful of you.” 

Thoughtful? Bellatrix Black? Not on your tits. 

But she flushes nonetheless, a small smile curling the corner of her mouth. “So.” she says. 

“Yes?” Hermione replies. 

“Parkinson.” 

“Yes?” 

“Looked a bit...cozy.” 

Hermione laughs, and the sound is like rain on a hot day, fresh ice in cold water. She toes her shoes off and draws her legs onto the couch, tucking her knees against her chest. “She’s lovely. And a friend. Really Bellatrix, do you think I kiss all the witches?” 

Wish you would kiss this witch, she thinks to herself.

She could drown herself. When did she become so….thirsty? 

“How are you? Really?” she asks.

She had seen the younger woman only a handful of times during her two week stint in Mungos. The damage Macnair inflicted was severe. Parkinson was good, but she wasn’t a miracle worker. The punctured organs required extensive healing, the blood replacing. She was pumped up with antibiotics and pain potions, half the time not in her right mind, fevered and mumbling and bunching the sheets in her hands. Slowly, she improved. And Bella watched, lingered and brooded. She debated on which flowers to buy. Were stuffies appropriate for grown women? What chocolate was her favorite? 

The day before discharge, Hermione woke with half of Mungos’ gift shop piled around her bed. Bellatrix was at the foot of her bed, grinning proudly, clutching a handful of brightly colored balloons. 

They didn’t speak. Not really. Their gazes brushed, little words tumbled out here and there. There was anxiety between them, a brooding tension, thick with sparking energy. 

And so, when Bellatrix looks at her with those charcoal eyes and those red lips, Hemione forgets how to breathe. She doesn’t register her question, too caught up in watching the pulse in her throat. 

They are alone. Finally. 

Crookshanks, being the intuitive fellow he is, amscrays. 

“I don’t really want to talk about myself,” Hermione says, eyes on Bella’s mouth. 

“Talking is overrated,” Bella agrees. Her stomach flutters and she puts her hand there, surprised. 

The front door opens, admitting a crowd of fumbling, stumbling witches and wizards. 

Harry carries Teddy, flying him like an airplane. The Weasleys jostle in, Ron whooping as he sees Hermione, Ginny wrangling him back the collar of his shirt. Narcissa is somewhere in the press, hand on Draco’s arm. 

“Shit,” Bellatrix says. “Forgot about that. Sorry.” 

“Hermione!” Molly Weasley shouts. She nearly mows Bellatrix over in her haste to reach the brunette witch, beaming and holding her cheeks. “Oh, but you look so skinny. Let’s see what Andy has in the pantry, shall we?” 

“Mum,” Ginny groans. 

There is no stopping a mother hen in her quest to nurture. Hermione finds herself tugged to her feet and dragged the kitchen. She’s sat down in a chair and Mrs. Weasley whips to, spells pots and pans, humming over the contents of the fridge. 

The night passes in a blur of food and loud conversation. Drinks are shared, fond memories recalled. Squeezed between Ron and Harry, Hermione finds herself slipping into a tranquil place, an easy summer frame of mind. 

Near midnight, the younger ones gather on Andromeda’s back lawn. They lay in the grass, shoulder to shoulder, and count the stars. Hermione doesn’t comment when she sees Draco’s fingers brush over Harry’s knuckles. But she smiles, her chest warm, a happy glow in her mind. 

Much later, stepping over bundles of sleeping witches and wizards, Hermione makes her way to the stairs. She is halfway up when she sees movement and tilts her head up. 

Dark eyes gaze down at her. Bellatrix stands at the top of the stairs, ebony hair a mess of curls around her shoulders, her throat pale in the moonlight. She is dressed for sleep, a tatty old t-shirt hanging off her shoulder, her sweats low on her hips. 

Their eyes lock and something snaps into place. Heremione takes a deep breath through her nose, holding it in her lungs.

Bellatrix holds out her hand. 

It’s as simple as that. A gesture and momentum is propelling Hermione forward, upwards. She takes Bella’s hand and their fingers entwine. 

“Here,” Bella says, pulling her into a room. 

“We should really talk about this later,” Hermione says, closing the door, leaning her back into it. 

“Much later,” Bella says. She drops her gaze to Hermione’s lips. “Are you up for this? Being an invalid and all.” 

“Invalid?” 

“Well…” 

Hermione laughs. She sobers suddenly, her expression troubled. “What is this, Bellatrix?” 

Bellatrix flattens her palms against the door, caging Hermione as she looks down into her eyes. She brushes the tip of her nose against her cheek, along her jaw, feels her body soften against her own. 

“Don’t try to distract me,” Hermione says. Her fingers are suddenly in Bella’s hair, twisting, directing her face so that their eyes catch. She is intent, her gaze sharp. She searches Bellatrix, looking for the truth of her.

“What is this to you?” she asks. “A casual roll in the hay with the mudblood? A nice fuck to put you to sleep?” 

The way she says fuck, her mouth close to Bella’s lips, her eyes nearly black; she snaps the word, gives it a guttural twist. Bella leans into her, lip caught between her teeth as heat uncoils low in her stomach.

“You really are thick,” she murmurs. She touches her throat, spreading her palm over the delicate skin. “You can’t feel this? It feels like a fucking hurricane.” 

Hermione places her hand over Bella’s heart, feeling that primal rhythm, beating like war drums, steady and sure. 

“This is yours,” Bellatrix says, pressing her hand tight against her chest. She guides her, sliding her fingers down, over her stomach, passing the waistband of her pants, pressing her between her legs. She lets loose a deep moan, dragging her teeth over Hermione’s neck when she touches her where she is wet. “That’s for you.” 

Hermione’s eyes close and her lips part. She shudders, her fingers curling against Bellatrix, dragging. She pulls her hand up, gripping Bella’s hip, pulling her closer.

Bellatrix drags an open mouth kiss over her neck, biting at the skin behind her ear. She licks her lobe and breathes, enjoying the tremor that rips down the other woman’s spine. 

Bellatrix craves control. It is her essence, her state of being. Without it, she is fire, she is chaos. So she keeps herself leashed, a lovely, restrained woman behind an iron mask. 

Looking into Hermione’s eyes, she feels her vulnerability. Her pupils are blown and she’s staring at Bellatrix’s mouth like she could devour her. But she is shaking, a nervous ball of adrenaline and lust and anxiety. 

“How do you want me?” Bella whispers in her ear. 

Hermione’s eyes widen. 

That’s the question, isn’t it? 

She wants her skin flush against her, bent and gasping. She wants her between her legs. She wants her on top, underneath her, all around her. She wants her panting and dazed, she wants her teeth biting into her shoulder. She wants her wrapped around her hips. She wants to drown between her thighs.

She wants it all. So much that she aches, that her hands tremble and her skin burns.

Hermione shoves Bellatrix, pushing her towards the bed. Bellatrix chuckles, reaching for the waist of her jeans. She catches her, looping her fingers against the rough material, walking them back. She stops when she feels the mattress against her thighs. 

They undress one another quickly, all gentleness gone from their touches. There is urgency to their movements, an unspoken understanding in the quickness of their breaths. 

Ripping her shirt over her head, Hermione holds Bellatrix and her body fits in her hands like they were made for one another. Sliding her hands up her sides, over her ribs, she pulls her close and they come together the way they’ve intended all along. 

There is nothing innocent or shy to the way Bellatrix kisses. She kisses deeply, languidly, opening her mouth, flicking her tongue to hook against Hermione’s, teasing her. She smooths her hands up her thighs, dancing along the curve of her hips. She leaves red lines down her back.

She takes Hermione with her as she falls back. Gripping the back of her neck, their mouths still joined, she leads her up the bed until her back is against the headboard, Hermione pressed between her legs. 

Hermione’s knuckles white against the headboard, they break apart. Sipping air in harsh breaths, Bellatrix reaches for her. She touches the scars on her arms. She dips her fingers along her collarbone. She traces the angry red scar Jada left on her stomach. She palms her breasts and rolls her hips into her, twisting her nipples until she gasps. There’s not a thought in her mind, only a ferocious appetite, a wave of sensation that leaves her feeling raw, arching, desperate for touch. 

“You’re unreal,” Hermione tells her, sliding her hands down her body to hold her hips. The anticipation of the moment is wrecking her, edging her. “Is this real?” 

Bellatrix takes her hand, guiding her to where she needs her most. She touches her face.

“You tell me,” she says. Her eyes slam shut as she feels Hermione’s fingers, her hips meeting her with a quick, hard thrust. 

If it’s not real, it’s the best dream she has ever had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright you beautiful people. We brought it back with some humor and some (porn music) goodness. Felt like you all earned it after last chapter. 
> 
> I've said it before and I'll say it again; writing smut makes me cringe! 
> 
> So imagine yourself sitting in a garden on a spring afternoon. It's late May, edging into June. Wispy clouds across a bright blue sky, the smell of fresh cut grass and barbecues. You're sitting in the shade, there's a warm breeze in your hair, perhaps a bit of eye candy across the way....And bam! Bug on your face. Dry ass, sticky, skittering legs all over your damn nose. *Shudder*
> 
> That's how I feel when I write these scenes. And that's why you don't get as much content for it. Seriously, the first half of the chapter wrote itself. I'm jazzed, I'm good, nothing to see here. And then the moment of truth. Ten minutes go by....a word. Six minutes go by...two words. Another ten...wait, wait. Why the fuck would Bella stick her finger in Hermione's ear, erase that, ya fecking weirdo. Damn cursor blinking on the screen, mocking me with all that EMPTY WHITE SPACE WHERE YOU HAVEN'T PUT ANY WORDS, WRITER.
> 
> I shit you not, I wrote "nipples" once and my face was red for an hour. I'm eating my chicken and broccoli, face heated like the business end of a rocket, and I'm staring across the room at my PC seriously considering going back to take out that one tiny line. Just, take it out. Nipple twisting?? For fuck's - BAHHHHHHHHHHH. Then I listened to The Weeknd and I was like, ya know what? There's much kinkier shit out there than nipple twisting. It's not like she's snorting cocaine off her ass while wearing a latex fetish suit. Just walk away. Walk. The. Fuck. Away.
> 
> lkjadkfjasfhadjkflnadsf
> 
> Ugh, anyway. Sorry everyone. You want jokes, I got 'em. You want some badass bitches, take your pick. Some blood and gore, call me Quentin Tarantino. But for the sexy bits, there is literally a metric ass ton of better smuttiness out there. Like, really good shit. Like...really, really, really good. *dies in embarrassed gay*


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You all can thank TrueBlackLioness for this chapter and the consequential rating increase. They good naturedly called the last chapter "smut tease", and I thought it was absolutely hilarious until like a bolt of light from the heavens, I heard a voice;
> 
> "Have you or someone you know been the victim of SMUT TEASE? You may be entitled to a settlement. Call 1-800-ShitsNotCool for your free consultation now!" 
> 
> It was supposed to be small. Like, 500 words? A stroke, two massive coffees, and a cold shower later, here we are. If there are any typos, apologies. I edited this bad boy only once, because that is all my weak ass body can handle.
> 
> Now I'm gonna go submerge myself in ice and think about roach poop. Nothing at all sexy about roach poop.
> 
> Good day.

“I want you to stay,” Bellatrix says. Wrapped in a sheet, sweat cooling on her skin, she watches Hermione reach for her shirt.

Hermione pauses, looking at her. There is something feral to her expression, angry. “Do you? Really?” 

“You’re transparent, you know. It’s an old trick. You think I’m going to hurt you, so you try to hurt me first. It’s not going to work.” 

Hermione looks down at the shirt clenched in her hands. Her face is shadowed, but Bella can see her jaw work, tension settled like a familiar companion between her shoulder blades. 

“You don’t trust me.” Bellatrix states. “You think I’m using you.” 

“I don’t know you,” Hermione says, a bite to her voice. “Not really. And yet here I am in your bed, tying myself into knots over whether or not you want me. I’m furious with myself.” 

Bellatrix smiles. She traces a finger down her spine. “You don’t just fuck and live happily ever after, pet. Love takes work. Trust. And more talking than you can imagine.” 

“Is that what this is? Love?” 

Bellatrix’s gaze is deep, watchful. “It can be. Does that scare you?” 

“Yes.” It terrifies her, exhilarates her, leaves her dry mouthed, a terrifying hunger in the pit of her stomach.

“We don’t have to push anything. If the sun rises and you never want to see me again, then go. But stay tonight. Please.” 

The shirt slips from Hermione’s fingers. There’s a tone to Bellatrix’s words, a vulnerability uncharacteristic to her usual surety. It gets under her skin, nestles close to her heart. 

“You’re dangerous, Bella,” she says, a warning to herself. Don’t fall in love. 

It would be so easy for Bellatrix. To ruin her, to destroy every last bit of song in her heart. 

Bellatrix pulls the sheet from her legs, rising to her knees. She touches her hands to Hermione’s shoulders, dips her head to brush her lips over her ear. 

“You have no idea,” she whispers. 

She does. Perversely, it is part of the attraction. It feeds the anticipation, the tingle of uncertainty that has her watching Bella’s eyes, holding her too tightly. It’s like falling; stomach lurching, speeding headfirst towards a painful collision. She can practically taste it, the destruction, the tangled wreck that a harsh word from this woman could reduce her to. It terrifies her, to be so vulnerable, to be so out of control of her own emotions. 

It’s out of her hands. They’ve come too far. They’ve come together, tongues tangled, fingers curling inside one another. They have staked their claims, nothing hidden in that moment of completion, that euphoric drag of time when there is only the black behind your eyes and that closeness, that mind numbing intimacy. 

Nothing matters to her but Bellatrix’s tongue, the taste of her mouth. 

Bella is chasing a high, an elevated destination of possession. She wants to feel everything, every last ripple, every twist and thrust. She wants to take the woman in her hands and break her down to her base elements. She wants to dazzle her, to kiss her until she can’t breathe, to cling to her as she unthreads and unravels and bleeds herself into eternity.

The heady, frantic fumblings of their first time are gone. They move with learned familiarity, mouth to mouth, legs tangling, their hips immediately searching for that perfect sync of friction, catching with a sharp intake of breath.

Hermione reaches for Bellatrix, grabbing her by the ass and pulling her closer, desperate to dispel the heat in her stomach. Bellatrix bites her neck until her lips part as she moans. Aggressive, impatient, Bella seizes Hermione’s wrists, locking them together over her head. She grips hard, conveying her demand for stillness, obedience. 

She is surprised when Hermione responds with defiance, crushing their mouths together. Her lips are harsh, bruising, her teeth sharp against her lip. 

Bella reaches between her legs, dragging her fingers through her wetness. 

“You’ve had your fun,” Bellatrix says, touching her wet finger to Hermione’s lips. “Did you think I would let you lead all the time?” 

Hermione takes Bella’s finger into her mouth. She sucks it with a rough tongue. She looks into her eyes and she bites her. 

Bellatrix laughs. Tightening her hold on her wrists, she shifts, spreading Hermione’s legs with a knee. 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she says, brushing her fingers over her throat. “But I will.” 

Hermione’s eyes flash, her lip catching between her teeth. “You think I’m that easy? A little slap, a little hard fucking and I do what you say? You’re not nearly as good as you think you are.” 

“Is that so?” 

Hermione’s smile is moonlight on a bloodied blade, a dangerous glint in her eye. 

“Show me,” she dares her. 

Bellatrix enters her with rough fingers, angling her hand so that she hits deep. She grins with satisfaction as she feels Hermione’s body tense, her jaw locking, chin tilting back to bare her throat. It’s an unconscious submission, an admission that their chemistry is right, their precision perfect. It makes Bellatrix glow, her mind swimming in a heady haze. It’s like religion, a certainty of salvation, a sureness of perfection. 

“Not that good,” Bellatrix smirks. “This feels good, though. Right?” 

Hermione’s mouth is stubbornly shut, teeth gritted, her chest flushed with color. 

“Oh, I see.” Bellatrix takes her hand away. She wipes her wet fingers on Hermione’s stomach, giving her a smug smile. “I’ll stop. I wouldn’t want you to feel taken advantage of.” 

“I hate you,” Hermione says. But her eyes on the fluid on her stomach, her pupils blown large. She twists, trying to pull her wrists from Bellatrix’s grip.

Bellatrix uses her weight, pressing her into the bed. She smiles, as sharp and dark as broken obsidian. 

“Frustrating, isn’t it?” she says. 

Hermione stills. “I don’t do this.” This fear, tangling with need, the pleasure sharper for it.

Bellatrix looks into her eyes, so deep that she can see everything she is, every twisting, painful doubt.

“You make me feel crazy,” Hermione whispers. She doesn’t know what to do with herself, doesn’t know how to let go. She is burning up, fire licking away her insides, leaving a dark void in her chest. 

Bellatrix kisses her, softly, lingering. 

“I’ll keep you safe,” she says. “Just give. I can take it. Anything. Everything you have.” 

Hermione takes a breath, searching her eyes. 

“Let go,” Bellatrix says, tracing her lips. 

For a moment, Bella is sure she has gone too far. She has damaged her pride, frightened her, angered her. 

Hermione nods. 

It’s like a storm breaking. Bellatrix lets go of her wrists and Hermione surges into her, tangling her fingers in her hair, crashing their lips together. She moans low in her throat, feeling Bellatrix’s fingers inside her again, curling.

She rips their mouths apart, wraps her hand around Bella’s throat. 

“Harder,” she says, squeezing. 

Bella’s eyes burn. She’s only too happy to oblige. She presses her throat into Hermione’s palm, encouraging her to firm her grip. She deepens the thrust of her fingers, putting force behind her movements. She angles her thumb to just the right place, moaning with appreciation at the look of bliss that comes over Hermione’s face. 

It’s that expression that spurs her, emboldens her. She wants desperately to see her break, to watch her composure collapse. She is close, her hips setting a frenzied rhythm, the hand on Bella’s throat tightening. Her free hand catches Bella’s, their fingers locking together as they strain against one another, grounding them, frantic to be connected in every way. 

To Bellatrix, watching the release rip through Hermione’s body is a masterpiece. It’s the stuff of epics, the passion of it viceral, gut wrenching. That rapture is ancient, as tattooed on the psyche as instinct. It is the same unravelling that pitted Troy against Sparta, that made gods of men and fools of gods. It’s intrinsic, a basic desire that blooms, becomes more, so powerful that it consumes everything until there is only the sensation, that taut, fiery line of connection between two brightly burning souls.

Bella holds her. She holds her until her tremors ease and her hand slips from around her throat. She kisses her eyelids and shifts so that Hermione is nestled in her lap, her head on her shoulder. 

“You are wicked,” Hermione murmurs, tracing a lazy finger around Bella’s nipple. 

“You are exquisite,” Bella replies. 

Hermione groans. “Don’t compliment me. My heart can’t take it. Neither can my body. If you keep talking like that, I’m going to want to fuck you. And I think one more orgasm might just kill me.” 

Bellatrix chuckles. She doesn’t bother keeping the prideful smirk from her face. 

She becomes aware of Hermione staring at her. 

“Something on my face?” she asks. 

Pushing herself out of Bella’s arms, Hermione slides down her body. She bites her hip, leaving behind teeth marks. 

“No. But I would like something on my face.” 

Bellatrix snorts. “You silver tongued devil, you.” 

Using an elastic from her wrist, Hermione ties her hair up. She wrinkles her nose, holding a laugh. “That was pretty bad, wasn’t it?” 

“A bit.” 

“But it’s true.” 

Bellatrix takes a breath. “Hermione -” 

“Not a word,” Hermione says. “What did you say earlier? ‘You’ve had your fun’? Well you’ve had yours. Frown again and I’ll spank you.” 

Bellatrix nearly does. She wants to. She refrains, giving a stretch, hooking a leg behind Hermione’s thighs. 

“I only meant to say that you shouldn’t feel obligated. No pressure, okay?” 

Hermione cocks her head. Her expression is unreadable. “You’re terribly kind, you know. I didn’t expect that.” She runs feather light fingertips along Bella’s thighs. “What if I told you I want you to take advantage of me? If I told you that I don’t want you to be gentle? Not now, at least.” 

Bellatrix swallows. 

Hermione’s hands slip under Bella’s knees. She pulls her roughly against her, holding her up as she moves to the edge of the bed. She steps off onto the floor, angling Bella’s hips so that she sits on the edge of the mattress.

“What if I told you I want to be yours?” 

Fuck if she doesn’t kneel. 

Bellatrix has seen many things. She has seen men and women die; she has seen tyrants rise and fall; she has seen the world burn down only to be reborn. 

None of it touches what she feels looking down to meet Hermione’s eyes as she kneels between her legs, her fingernails drawing lines on her thighs. Lines that form letters, and letters that shape to words. Words that make her head spin, her stomach twist with anticipation. 

Her hand shakes as she touches Hermione’s lips. She slips her fingers into her hair. 

“Then I would say you are mine.” 

Hermione’s mouth is warm. She gives Bellatrix a firm lick, not a bit shy as she flattens her tongue, dragging it against Bella’s entrance. She meets her eyes as she does, a challenge in her gaze. She tastes her and she moans. 

Bellatrix nearly bites through her lip before she remembers her role.

“Good girl,” she says. 

She feels her smirk against her, feels the scrape of her teeth and she gasps, tensing. Hermione’s arms slide under her thighs, wrapping around her, her fingers biting into her hips as she holds her. The strength in her hands is surprising, enticing. Bella brushes her knuckles, runs her fingers over her forearms, tracing the delicate wrist bones standing out against her skin. 

There is a shrewdness to Hermione’s mouth, a deadly sort of hunger, as if Bellatrix is prey and Hermione the predator. She is cunning, using her tongue as a weapon, skilled in the art of defense, quick to conquer. 

Hermione is high, blissed out and stoned. She’s certain that if she were to open her mouth, she would speak in tongues. There’s something intoxicating in the power she feels, some addictive taint that makes her sure that nothing else will ever compare. Her skin is static with electricity, and she is nothing but the ache between her legs and the desperation in her chest. She wants very much to please. The thought of what Bellatrix must feel, and even more so, the thought that she is the source of her pleasure, is enough to send her mind stuttering and skipping and burning.

She watches Bellatrix, watches her eyes slip close, her mouth open. The sounds she makes are obscene. They light her on fire, stoking the heat building in her stomach. Bella is taut, thrumming, her legs locking around Hermione’s shoulders, her fingers knotting in her hair. Hermione feels sweat break out under her hands, feels her muscles straining. She watches her closely. She waits until her back is arching, her breathing harsh and ragged. 

And she takes her mouth away. 

Bella’s eyes flash open, her expression confused, aching. Seeing Hermione’s devious smile, she lets out a growl. 

“Granger, if you don’t put your mouth back, so help me -” 

She breaks off as Hermione untangles their bodies, standing. 

“You really need to learn how to shut the fuck up,” Hermione says. 

Bellatrix gasps as her hips are seized and she is flipped onto her stomach. She feels the bed shift, Hermione’s warm presence behind her. Her hand lands sharply on her ass and she yelps. She flares, part shame, part arousal. She tries to turn, ready to give her a mouthful, but she feels her hand in her hair, pulling her up until she is pressed against Hermione’s front. She feels her breasts and her hips and she lets out a breath, desperately trying to steady herself. 

Control, control, control. 

Hermione’s lips are soft on her shoulder, her breath warm against the back of her neck. Holding Bella’s hips, she grinds into her. She moves like a dancer, the tilt and turn of her hips sensual, an easy and fluidity of motion that promises desire fed. It sends Bellatrix on a trip, biting her tongue, and clutching at Hermione’s neck over her shoulder. They move together in tandem, the sensation of their skin gliding together nearly enough to do them in. 

Bellatrix is settling into a rhythm, falling into breathy ecstasy when she feels Hermione’s hands on her shoulder blades, pressing her forward. 

“Oh,” she says. 

Hermione touches her neck, sending chills rippling down her spine. 

“Yeah?” Hermione asks. 

Catching her drift, Bellatrix laughs. 

“Somehow, I expected you to be more inhibited.”

“We can roleplay later,” Hermione says. She dips her head and sucks on the skin where her neck meets her shoulder. 

Merlin, what have I gotten myself into, Bellatrix wonders. 

She allows herself to be pressed forward, Hermione’s hand flat between her shoulders. When her cheek is against the bed, Hermione’s fingers trail down her back, dipping along the curve of her back. 

She wants to tell her not to hold back, but Hermione, as one would expect, is already prepared. She tasted it on Bella’s lips, that plain, heady desire. So she holds her hip and she fucks her with two fingers, ignoring the sensitivity she knows she is feeling, setting a brutal pace. She gives her barely enough time to acclimate before she adds a third finger. She tries to focus on her movements, not the long, low moan Bella looses. She finds herself caught up, staring at the muscles tensing across her shoulders, her voice muffled as she presses her face into the bed. 

Really should have cast a silencing charm. 

On cue, Bellatrix swears loudly, spasming around Hermione’s fingers, her body snapping upright. Hermione quickly adjusts to the angle and Bellatrix reaches back to tangle her arms around her neck. She swears again as Hermione slides her hand around to give her nipple a harsh twist. Flushed and sweating and cursing, she nearly falls over, but Hermione spreads her fingers over her heaving ribs, holds her upright. 

“Now you can come,” Hermione whispers in her ear. 

She shatters. Like a mirror dropped from a cliff, she breaks apart, exploding in a million sharp, refracting pieces. She is light, bright hot, searing, melting down at terminal speed. She loses herself, caught in the bliss of it, an intensity of sensation so harsh that it edges on pain. 

Hermione’s hands are gentle, her arms tight around her. She lets out a ragged breath and shakes. 

An eternity later, she opens her eyes and finds herself pressed into Hermione’s neck, said witch smirking up at the ceiling. 

“Oh, you’re one of those,” Bellatrix says passing a finger over her chin. 

“One of what?” 

“A smug bastard.” 

Hermione laughs, her eyes dancing. 

“Do you still want me to stay?” she asks. She doesn’t quite look at Bellatrix when she says it, a tightness to her jaw. 

Bellatrix takes her face in her hands and brushes her lips over her eyelids. “If you tried to leave now, I would set you on fire.” 

Hermione’s face relaxes. “You really gave my jaw a work out. I thought it was going to fall off.”

“Your uber vag almost broke my fingers. What do you feed that thing?” 

Smiling, Hermione trails her fingers over Bella’s cheeks, traces the line of her nose. She smooths her thumbs along her jaw and kisses her sweetly. 

“Want to be the little spoon?” Bellatrix asks. 

“Yes, please.” 

Tucked together, legs tangled, their fingers touch, brush and part, come back together, unable to stay away. 

“I still hate you,” Hermione murmurs sleepily. 

Bellatrix kisses her shoulder. “I hate you, too.” 

Hermione gives a contented sigh and they slip away, chasing each other in their dreams.


	10. Chapter 10

Andromeda is suspicious. Sitting at the kitchen table, her eyes swing between four faces in particular. Harry and Draco leaning against the fridge, shoulder to shoulder, watching each other from the corners of their eyes, as if no one else can see them. They think they are clever with their furtive looks and their casual brushes, but they aren’t fooling anyone. She dismisses them. 

Bellatrix and Hermione on the other hand; Hermione is the picture of composure, Daily Prophet in one hand, a steaming beverage in the other. There’s not a hair out of place and she sips her drink quietly, expression serene. Bellatrix looks as if she has only just pulled herself from a week long bender. Her hair is wild, her clothes having the disheveled appearance of having been tossed on as an afterthought. She is pale and twitchy and her lips looked bruised. But her eyes are smoldering and she has a self-satisfied look about her, an air of triumphant glee.

Andromeda narrows her eyes. Bellatrix butters a slice of toast and hums.

“You’re very chipper this morning,” Andromeda comments. 

Bellatrix smiles, a flash of white teeth as she bites into her toast. 

“Sounded like you had a rough night,” Draco comments. He is checking his tie in the reflective surface of the toaster. “Did you hurt yourself?” 

“Stubbed my toe,” Bellatrix says. 

Hermione takes a loud sip of coffee. 

“Hm,” Andromeda says. 

“And where were you, Mione?” Harry asks. “I looked for you before I dozed off.” 

“Me? I was stubbing Bella’s toe.” 

Juice shoots from Harry’s nose. He coughs, face turning bright red. Draco hands him a kerchief. 

“Oh, it burns!” Harry cries. 

“Granger, you dog,” Draco says. 

Hermione doesn’t look up from her paper. She holds up her fist and Draco bumps it with his own on his way by. 

“I really do hope you’re practicing safe sex,” Andromeda says. 

“Andy -” Bella loses color in her face. 

“No, really, Bellatrix. You have a responsibility to each other to be respectful and careful.” 

“I couldn’t agree more,” Hermione says. She folds the paper and shoots Andromeda her best smile. “We’ll be ever so careful, I promise.” 

“You’re humoring me,” Andromeda says blandly. 

“Not at all,” Bellatrix says. “We won’t touch each other unless we are wearing full body hazard suits.” 

“Right, with goggles,” Hermione adds. “You know, because it gets very….sticky.” 

“We’ll need one of those signs, pet. Those yellow floor signs? What do they say?” 

Hermione’s smile is massive, her eyes glinting. “Slippery when wet.” 

Bellatrix snaps her fingers, beaming. “Just the one.” 

“That’s enough,” Draco says, grimacing. “The less I hear about your...fluids, the better my day. Really. You filth.” 

Having cleaned his face and wiped the tears from his eyes, Harry sniffles and replaces his specs. He looks between Hermione’s innocent face and Bellatrix’s smirk and sighs. 

“Bloody hell. We both have horrible taste, Mione.” 

“I resent that,” Bellatrix says. 

“Alright,” Andromeda says, slapping the table as she stands. “I’m bringing Teddy down. Not a bit more. Best behavior.” 

Bellatrix watches her sister leave with shrewd eyes. She leans close to Hermione, whispering quietly. “Think she needs a bit of drilling.” 

“That’s rude, Bella.” 

“Oi, Potter! Know any eligible bachelors? Not the sword swallowers, the fishermen. I’m asking for a friend.” 

Mouth poised to take a drink, Harry reconsiders with a sour look and sets the cup to the side. He can see he won’t be consuming anything in Bellatrix’s presence. 

“You disgust me,” Draco sneers, but his heart isn’t in it, and his grey eyes dance. 

“You repulse me,” Bellatrix replies. 

Draco toasts her with a cocky smirk. 

“How heartwarming,” Hermione mumbles, shaking out her Prophet. 

“You get used to it,” Harry says. “Draco still hasn’t called me by my first name. It’s always Potter this, Potter that. Occasionally he calls me a cunt.” 

Bellatrix sighs, dropping her chin into her hand. “Ah, to be young and in love.” 

“Or ancient and thirsty,” Draco says. “Not naming names.” 

“Merlin’s pimpled ass, can a witch read in peace?” Hermione says in frustration. She stands, taking her Prophet with her. 

She barely makes it a step before her wrist is caught and she is spun around. She takes a quick breath, finding herself pressed against Bellatrix’s front. She looks up into her eyes and her mouth is suddenly a desert, her mind a daze. She forgets what has irritated her and lets out a shaky breath. 

Grinning triumphantly, Bellatrix cups her cheek. “Not so fast, pet. There’s a toll.” 

Hermione wraps her arms around Bellatrix's neck and brushes their lips together. 

“And tax,” Bellatrix murmurs, her eyes closed. 

Hermione kisses her again, licking Bella’s lip and scraping her teeth gently over the tip of her tongue. 

“Blech,” Draco says. 

Harry sighs. “You don’t kiss me like that.” 

Frowning, Draco smacks him across the ass. “Move along, Potter. My eyes are bleeding.” 

They leave the witches alone, their mouths tangled, warmed by morning light and lingering kisses.

“You have failed.” 

Hands scabbed and bleeding, Jada twists them, pulling at the knots of the ropes. The rope burns her, wearing through her skin. She licks the blood from her teeth and spits on the floor. 

Her father watches her with a dispassionate gaze, his eyes nearly washed of color. “Hermione Granger lives.” He turns, sweeping his eyes over their collection of souls, twisting in jars lined neatly along wooden shelves built into the cellar walls. “ But you knew this. And you have done nothing. I find myself wondering how I could have produced such impotent progeny.” 

Jada snorts. She gives her bonds another experimental tug. She knows her father’s magic will hold, but she is compelled regardless, a petulant show of force. 

“Oh, Daddy dearest,” she taunts, pitching her voice higher. “We both know it’s my age and my gender that’s tiresome to you. Perhaps if I had a nice cock -” 

The Crucio snaps her spine straight, cracks her head back. Her teeth clench, the enamel nearly cracking with the force of her bite. 

He releases the spell with a disdainful sneer. “You are crude. You are an infection, daughter. And you waste my time.” 

She finds herself laughing, her head rolling, blood and fire behind her eyelids. 

Candyman touches a jar with the tip of a nail. The soul inside the glass shrinks from his touch, turning the color of dried blood. 

“Fix this,” he says. He releases the ropes that bind her and tosses her wand at her feet. “I want them, you vile child. Bring them to me or by the Dark Lord’s will, I will break you apart piece by fleshy piece.” 

She doesn’t move as he leaves, ascending the stairs and leaving her in darkness. She disassociates herself from the pain splitting along her bones, tunneling herself into a lone thought; Hermione. 

The silly woman forced her hand at Mungos. She had no intention of harming her. She could have easily dispatched Potter and the Black bitch. But no, her adorable little mudblood had to play the hero and try to protect them. As if. But, for a brief moment, she had defended Jada. That touches her. There’s no one in the world that would do that for her and the thought gives her a flash of shame, regret. 

The knife was...excessive. She hadn’t planned it, really. It was a moment of rage, betrayal. Watching her stand between her and Black, it was a blow to the chest, a bitter twist on her tongue. It brought the vengeance sweating from her skin, the blood lust licking along her neck. 

She wanted to bring her low. She wanted to break her. She wanted to annihilate her, eradicate her existence from the earth, sear her taste from her mouth. She wanted to possess her, to crawl inside of her and own her. 

She shudders, biting her lip until it bleeds. 

Perhaps there is still a chance. What’s a bit of attempted murder in the passion of battle? 

She has just the thing. A bit of ebony hair pilfered from Hermione's pillow while the witch convalesced in Mungos.

She spits again. She is sure Bellatrix Black will taste absolutely vile. 

Brushing her lips over Bella’s cheek, Hermione reaches up to tuck a lock of her dark hair behind her ear. She presses her nose against the soft skin under her ear, giving a sniff. 

“Is that new?” Hermione asks. “You smell different.” 

Bellatrix gives her a quick smile, catching her hand. “Do you like it?” 

Hermione considers, leaning close to smell her again. “It smells familiar somehow. I just can’t place my finger on it.” 

“It will come to you. Now, are we going up or not?” 

Bellatrix’s note had come unexpectedly midway through her work day. Delivered by a rather bitey owl, the note had been short and sweet, a sultry request that left her useless for the remainder of the day. 

Inside Hermione’s flat, Bellatrix helps her out of her coat, pressing a warm kiss to her throat. Eager, her stomach tight with tension, Hermione presses against her, searching for her mouth out with her own. She quickly moves to deepen the kiss, hungry for the taste of her tongue, but Bellatrix makes noise in her throat, pulling away. Hermione chases her lips but she is pressed back with a chuckle. 

“So eager,” Bellatrix says. “But I find myself hungry in the traditional sense. Shall I make us a bite?” 

Not one to deny a hungry woman, Hermione nods. She takes a seat on the edge of the couch. She touches her fingertips to her lips, frowning.

Something about the way Bella tasted...different somehow. But much like the perfume, familiar. A new toothpaste, perhaps? And the way she kissed - 

Cups rattle as Bellatrix sets about making tea. She brings it over once it’s finished, smiling as she presses a mug into Hermione’s hands. 

Hermione accepts the tea. She takes a sniff, finding it nearly cold. 

“A quick spell,” Bella says. “So that we don’t have to wait for it to cool. And we can move on to more important things.” 

Hermione sets the mug aside. Bellatrix’s eyes follow her hand and she frowns. 

“Is something wrong?” Hermione asks, watching her face closely. 

Bellatrix takes a sip of tea, eyes on Hermione’s over the rim of her mug. 

“You seem off somehow,” Hermione continues. “Have I done something to upset you?” 

Bella’s gaze softens. “What could you possibly have done?” 

“I don’t know. I just - I’m being silly aren’t I?” 

“Never.” Their lips brush together softly. They part and Bella taps her chin with the tip of her finger. “Drink your tea, love.” 

Hermione does. She takes a deep drink and Bellatrix’s lips stretch into a broad smile. 

She blinks down at the tea, finding its taste peculiar. “Bella, have you spiked the tea?” 

“Why yes, you clever witch, I have.” 

“With what?” 

Teeth, sharp and wicked. “Why, the most powerful drug of all; love.” 

Her eyes lose their brilliant black sheen, changing colors. One blue, the other amber. 

Hermione’s stomach twists, panic ripping through her. She is aware for but a moment, and then it is too late for her.

She blinks, a faint, light feeling spreading along her skin. It’s like being drunk, a burn beginning in her face, spreading down her neck and chest, along her arms, pooling in her palms. Her legs feel weightless, her brain as if it is floating in a jar of cold honey. 

“There now,” Jada says, her teeth sharp, her eyes burning. “How does that feel?” 

Hermione blinks at her and her face goes lax with awe. She raises a reverent hand, dragging her fingers through Jada’s pale hair. 

“You are so beautiful,” she murmurs. 

“Am I?” Jada preens. “Tell me, would you like a kiss?”

Hermione’s face flushes and her eyes flick down to look at Jada’s mouth. “Yes.” 

“I thought so.” 

Fisting her hands in Hermione’s shirt, Jada drags her close, catching her lips with a harsh kiss. She kisses her until their lips are sore and aching, until she’s trembling in Jada’s hands. 

Holding her face, Jada looks into her adoring eyes and smiles. 

“You’re mine now,” she says. “Do you like that?” 

Hermione nods. 

“I have just the thing. A way to bond us forever. So that that wicked Bellatrix can never take you from me again. How does that sound?” 

“Heavenly,” Hermione breathes. 

“Perfect,” Jada says and kisses her again.


	11. Chapter 11

They are back where it began for them - In the atrium beneath the sakura tree. The skylight is no longer enchanted with stars and comets, showing instead only thick black clouds brewing storms above the city. Their faces are lit from the jagged slashes of lighting that spark, sharpening the air with the smell of danger.

Still under the Love Potion’s effect, Hermione gazes at Jada adoringly. She says nothing as Jada takes her hand in her own, turning it over palm side up. 

Jada’s face is her own again and her eyes flash. “You know, I’ve never been truly happy.” 

Hermione watches her lips move as she speaks. 

“Doing this….I hate it. It’s underhanded and slimy and beneath me. I want you willing, I do. But our time is short, so extreme measures must be taken.” 

Hermione nods, understanding. 

Watching her face, Jada sighs. “I’m afraid you won’t be nearly so agreeable when that potion wears off.” 

“What potion?” Hermione murmurs. 

“Nothing, love. Don’t worry your pretty little head over it. I have just the thing to make you feel all better.” 

Blinking, Hermione gives a dazed smile. “That sounds lovely.” 

The knife Jada takes from her pocket is the same that was buried in Hermione’s insides not so long before. It is sharp in the light of storms, a wicked little thing with a keen hunger. Rain hammers against the skylight.

Jada draws the blade across their palms. “These violent delights have violent ends -” 

Something deep in Hermione’s mind sparks to the words, an amber chord of remembrance. “- and in their triumph die, like fire and powder, which as they kiss consume.”

Their blood is bright and it whispers as it wells, spreads through the lines in their palms.

“The sweetest honey is loathsome in his own deliciousness,” Jada continues. “And in the taste confounds the appetite.”

Hypnotized, Hermione tangles their fingers, pressing their palms together, mixing their blood.

“Therefore love moderately,” she finishes. “Long love doth so; too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.” 

“I vow to never harm you,” Jada says, staring intently into her eyes. “I tie my life to yours, my blood for your blood, your breath to mine. Our death together.” 

“Our death together,” Hermione echoes. “My life to yours, blood to blood, breath to breath. I vow to never harm you.” 

Blood drops rise from their red, clenched fingers, glistening red rubies of life force. They float up into the air, converging in a breath of light and magic, compressing to form a vial. It is golden and stoppered, a fine, intricately crafted bit of metal and bone in the shape of a small sun. It is spiked and sharp and at its center is a glowing red eye; their blood, mingled and paired for eternity. 

Lips parted, Jada plucks the vial from the air. She holds it in her bloodstained hand and gazes at it with fevered eyes. 

“It is done?” Hermione asks. 

Jada tears her eyes away from the vial. She laughs suddenly, catching Hermione’s hands in her own. She dances with her, spinning her in circles as she laughs, joyfully, loudly.

She notes Hermione’s wince as their wounds graze again. Swaying to music only she can hear, she runs her fingertips over the cut. She touches her blood to Hermione’s lips and gazes at her mouth. 

“Kiss me and it will heal,” she tells her. 

Compelled by potion and magic and destiny, Hermione does. She touches Jada’s lips with her own, and the wounds close. They disappear, as if they were never there. 

Hermione is unusually slow to wake. Blinking, unsticking her tongue from the roof of her mouth, she clears her throat and winces as a sharp pain lances through her temples. Gathering her energy, she tries to roll over, but the pain blinds her, and she grits her teeth, clenching her eyes shut. 

She lays still, trying to gather her bearings. She has a sense of displacement, of wrongness. She is certain that she is nowhere unfamiliar and the thought troubles her, has her trying to push past the pain to struggle to the surface of her mind. 

The bed beneath her shifts, cool fingers pressing against her forehead. 

“You’re burning up,” says a voice, feminine. The sound of a cork being drawn. “Here, drink this.” 

She allows herself to be held, parting her lips to welcome the glass mouth of a potion bottle. It’s contents are foul, tasting of sweet pink bubblegum, grass clippings, and turnips. She gags, but forces it down, cringing and shuddering all the while. 

A moment later the pain in her head abates and she opens her eyes. 

And stops breathing. 

She finds herself looking up into familiar eyes, different colors and glowing with the magic that keeps them alive. 

Hermione starts violently, ripping herself from Jada’s arms. She scrambles away, moving too quickly and finds herself colliding with the floor. She is quick to jump to her feet, frantically searching about her person for her wand. 

Calm, Jada smiles and taps Hermione’s wand against her chin. “Looking for this?” 

A quick glance around and the only thing that can remotely be used as a weapon is a vase on the table next to bed. Hermione seizes it, fully intending to hurl it full force into Jada’s face. She raises it, taking aim - 

And screams. 

She drops the vase and it shatters. She doubles over, agony sinking spikes of ice into her brain, blinding her. She hears Jada swear, a heavy sound as if she has fallen. 

“You can’t do that,” Jada says, her voice strained. 

When Hermione opens her eyes, she finds Jada kneeling near her, her hair plastered to her face with sweat, her breathing ragged. 

“We can’t harm each other,” Jada pants. “Otherwise it will harm us both.” 

She remembers suddenly; the atrium, the blood, the words that passed between them. 

“You bitch.” She pushes herself up, taking a threatening step forward. 

Jada is quick to flick Hermione’s wand. A gash opens up on her forearm, a mirror of the wound slicing across the word “Mudblood” carved into Hermione’s arm. 

Hermione stares at the bleeding cut, horrified. 

Raising her arm, Jada shows her the blood rolling down her pale skin, dripping off of her elbow. “This is what happens. We share everything. You can’t harm me, I cannot harm you. Well, it is open to interpretation. I suppose self harm results in the same for you, but you get the gist of it.” 

Hermione watches, speechless, as Jada heals the cut on her arm, her own closing and fading in turn. 

“Your predilection for violence disturbs me,” Jada says. She sits on the bed, offering her hand to Hermione. “Is that how you solve all your problems?” 

Hermione bats her hand away, standing on her own. “You stabbed me and you want to lecture me about violence?” 

“I stabbed you after you sent a Bombarda into my tits. Which was rude, by the by.” 

“You wanted to kill my best friend!” 

“Who wanted to slap me in irons and send me off to a cage for the rest of my life.” 

“Because you’re a murderer!” 

“Well isn’t that just the pot setting the kettle on fire.” 

“You can’t expect my sympathy.” 

“I don’t.” Jada’s eyes are clear, meeting her gaze without a waver. “I’ll never make excuses. I am what I am and I am who I am. There’s no changing that, or justifying it. I’m like you, Hermione. I’m ruthless, willing to do anything it takes to get what I want.” 

“I’m not like you.” 

“Right. Because you had a cause? A reason? That is the only difference between heroes and villains; willingness to admit that everything is self serving. Something your Bellatrix would agree with if she were here.” 

Hermione’s lips compress at Bella’s name, her gaze sharpening. 

“Here,” Jada says suddenly. She reaches into her pocket, withdrawing the sun vial, their blood glowing at its center. She presses it into Hermione’s palm, closing her fingers over it. “Keep it.” 

Opening her fingers, she gazes at the vial. “Why? Why have you done this?” 

“Because I dreamed of you.” 

Hermione’s eyes raise, clashing with Jada’s. 

“It’s the only way I know to keep you safe. From myself and from my father.” 

“Your father is dead.” 

She gives a soft smile, a shake of her head. “The man who’s name I carry is dead. My true father is very much alive. And not very pleased with you and your friends for killing his master.” 

“And the souls?” 

“You know about that, do you?” She sighs. “He has....acquired the Dark One’s body. He means to bring him back. The souls of the traitors are an exchange, a currency. Potter, Weasley, and yourself are meant to be gifts.” 

“You’re kidding.” 

“Afraid not.” 

“And you’re helping him do this?” 

“I don’t have a choice.” 

“You do!” 

“I do not.” 

Hermione searches Jada’s eyes. Against her own will, her hand raises, cupping Jada’s cheek. “What has he done to you?” 

Jada shrinks from her touch, anger flashing in her eyes, her mouth twisting in a sneer. “Worry about yourself, Granger. There’s nothing.” 

She can see the lie in her eyes, the vicious desperation to protect herself. Anger of her own boils in her chest, lashing and twisting with fury and she seizes her by the shoulders, forcing their gazes to meet. 

“You’ve brought me into this. You’ve made it my business. Tell me.” 

Jada takes a breath. She reaches out, taking Hermione’s hand. She presses it against her chest, over her heart. “He killed my mother. When he did, he lodged a piece of himself. Here.” 

Hermione’s eyes widen. “You’re a horcrux!” 

Jada’s eyes are cold as she smiles. “Bingo.” 

The implications hit Hermione with visceral force. “Are there others?” 

“No. Only me.” 

“This is absolutely insane. So you’ve done all this against your will?” 

“Oh, no, ” Jada says. “Quite a bit of it was me. I have a directive, but the method is all my own.”

“Merlin.” 

“I’m going to ask something difficult of you, Hermione. I need you to trust me.”

“You once told me I couldn’t trust you.” 

Jada smiles. “I lied.” 

Hermione snorts. She looks down at her hands, her mind racing. “What do you want me to do?” 

“I can’t defeat him. Not on my own. His influence over me is too potent. Bring Potter and Black. With their help, we can stop him. He will try to use me to stop them, but with you and I working together, I think we can manage.” 

“That sounds suspiciously like a trap.” 

Jada gives a lopsided shrug. “Your options are limited. I must confess, I’m not inclined to let you go.” 

Hermione considers. “You will have to answer for what you’ve done, when this is over. I will try to help you the best I can but…” 

Jada holds out her hand, Hermione’s wand balanced across her palm. Hermione takes it, their skin brushing, sending a tingle up her arm. 

“Did you really have to be so extreme?” she asks, clenching her teeth against the warm sensation rising in her stomach. 

“You don’t like it? It’s intimate. Sensual.” 

“You really are disturbed.” 

“What can I say? I have an appetite.” She stands abruptly. “Summon them. Tell them to come alone. Tell Black to come to the foundry. She will know where to go.” 

Jada turns to go. She hesitates, turning to give Hermione one final look. 

The emotion she sees in Jada’s eyes gives Hermione pause, catching her breath. There is longing there, hunger laced with uncertainty. She finds herself wondering who she could have been, what she could have been had her path not diverged so dramatically. There is a current to her, an inexorable attraction that snaps between them. 

It’s the magic, she thinks, trying to quiet her thoughts. She squeezes the blood vial in her hand, pricking herself on its sharp edges.

“Hermione?” 

“Yes?” 

“Tell Bellatrix hi from me.” 

Jada laughs, and walks from the room, leaving a glowering Hermione behind. 

The foundry smells of smoke and scorched metal. The heat of the smelting fires causes the air to shimmer, to waver. Jada holds Hermione by her upper arm, her fingers biting into her skin. She gives her a sharp tug and drops her mouth next to her ear. 

“Play along,” she whispers. 

“You and I are going to have a long talk when this is over,” Hermione hisses back. 

Jada’s lips give a quick curl before she catches herself. She smooths her features, bites the light from her eyes. 

Johnathan Shepard, embarrassingly known as Candyman, waits near the smelting pits, his pale eyes orange in the light of molten metal. Arrayed on the ground around him are the soul jars, the souls within burning as brightly as the fiery metal in the pits below. At Shepard’s back is a stone work table. Something lays upon it, covered by a black sheet. 

Shepard says nothing, merely watches as Hermione is shoved to the floor. 

“There,” Jada hisses. “Your prize.” 

Hermione shudders as Shepard’s gaze passes over her. 

He makes no comment, turning his attention to his daughter. “Where are the others?” 

“They will come. Should be on the way as we speak, actually. They would never leave their little friend in the clutches of peril, would they?” 

Shepard gives no acknowledgement that he has heard. He turns, stepping carefully over the soul jars. Standing at the end of the work table, he takes the edge of the sheet between his fingers. Watching Hermione’s face closely, he gives it a sharp tug, revealing what lies beneath.

Hermione’s stomach twists at the sight that greets her, her insides rebelling against the horror of it, turning sour and sick.

“My Lord,” Shepard says. “Reduced to rot. Look on, girl, at what you have wrought.” 

Voldemort is barely scraps of thin skin left on bones. His skeleton rests in a pile of dark soil, the dirt itself churning with worms and white grubs. The wiggling invertebrates are swollen nearly to bursting. 

“This will never do,” Shepard says. “The Potter boy will be my Lord’s new vessel. Fitting, don’t you think?” 

Hermione laughs. 

The sound startles Shepard and he peers down at her, his mouth twisting with distaste. 

Hermione snickers, wiping tears from her eyelids. “You present me with a pile of moldy bones and expect me to tremble? That is your great Dark Lord? The darkest wizard who ever lived? The big, bad bogeyman? I’m sorry, he is a bit underwhelming in his current state.” 

Shepard’s movements are quick as he strides across the floor. He splits his knuckles open on Hermione’s teeth as he slaps her, snapping her head back. 

Holding Hermione’s shoulder, Jada’s eyes flash, but her face remains expressionless, showing none of the stinging pain glowing over her lips. 

Teeth bloodstained, Hermione chuckles. She presses her hand against her mouth, her gaze defiant. “Did I touch a nerve?” 

Shepard sneers, breaking his composure. “I will enjoy watching you die.” 

Hermione opens her mouth to reply - 

When Shepard is thrown from his feet, a blast of red fire taking him square in the chest. He is thrown back violently, sliding along the edge of the floor, stopping dangerously near the edge of a smelting pit. 

“Get away from her, you bitch,” Bellatrix snarls. She comes forward at a fast clip, Harry at her shoulder. Their wands are out and ready. 

The air tightens, a compression of magic and heat. Hermione scrambles to her feet. She grabs Jada’s wrist, pulling her behind her. 

“Bella, do not hurt her. It’s not what you think.” 

Confusion flashes over Bellatrix’s face. “Get out of the way, pet.” 

“It’s not her fault. He’s made her a -” 

“I said get out of the way!” Bellatrix grabs Hermione’s wrist, shoving her into Harry’s arms.

Jada raises her hands, showing herself weaponless. But she’s smirking, her eyes on fire. “Don’t be too hasty, Black.” 

The Cruciatus snaps from Bellatrix’s wand without light. It curls around Jada, setting her ablaze with agony, driving her to her knees clutching her skull. 

In Harry’s arms, Hermione writhes, the sympathy of the blood pact linking her to the screaming woman, feeding her the same pain. Bellatrix turns her head at the sound, her eyes wide. The curse cuts off with her distraction and both women crumble. 

Face pale, Harry sinks to the floor with Hermione. He holds her, arms tight around her spasming body. His eyes when he raises them are wild with panic. 

Bellatrix spins, her face furious as she looms over Jada. 

“What have you done to her?” she demands, dropping to her knees. She jams her wand against her jugular. “What have you done?” 

“What you never could,” Jada smirks through clenched teeth. “She’s mine now, Black.” 

Rage sears through Bellatrix, blinding her. “I’m going to kill you.” 

“Ah, ah,” Jada says. “Bad idea.” 

Suddenly, Jada’s arm flashes up, a knife clutched in her hand. Bellatrix is quick to grab her wrist, catching her before she can jam the singing blade into her neck. She twists it, pointing the blade down. Teeth bared, she gives a cackle and forces her weight down, slamming the blade into Jada’s shoulder. 

Jada cries out. In Harry’s arms, Hermione twists and screams, dark blood blooming over her shirt. 

“Stop it!” Harry screams. “You’re going to kill her!” 

Bellatrix staggers to her feet, reeling, her mind working. Her hand trembles, the wand nearly slipping from her fingers. 

“Look in her pockets,” Jada murmurs. She snarls as she pulls the knife from her shoulder. 

Harry does. His fingers brush against something metallic and he retrieves it, holding it up to the light. The sun vial glimmers, gold and the pale white of bone. Bellatrix snatches it from him, the breath leaving her as she stares down at the vial, at the blood burning within. She clenches her hand, clenches until the vial cuts her, thick, dark blood weeping from between her fingers. 

Betrayal, black and viscous thickens in her throat, twists her guts. 

“That’s right,” Jada says. She coughs, spits dark blood on the floor. “You know what it is, don’t you? How does it make you feel? Does it sting?” 

Bellatrix burns. She feels magic welling inside of her, a chaotic energy threatening to melt her bones, blacken her brain. 

Jada laughs, pushing herself onto her knees. “Did you really think she could love you?” 

In the commotion, everyone has forgotten about Johnathan Shepard. He staggers to his feet, wavering as weakness tries to bring him low. He perseveres, pulling himself upright. And with all eyes on Jada, he levels his wand at the soul jars. 

A single spell and they shatter as one, glass and soul energy exploding into the air. The souls howl, the faces of their former vessels reflected in their bright energy, twisting and screaming. The coalesce as one, merging into a dark, writhing mass of black energy. 

Shouting old words of old magic, Shepard points his wand at the mass of souls. He expands a shield over himself with his free hand, clenching his fist as he holds it. 

“We have to stop him!” Harry shouts. He moves, carefully resting Hermione on the ground, minding her head on the hard floor. 

Jada is the quickest. She sprints towards her father and the mass of swirling souls, her dagger in her hand. His eyes catch her as she rushes towards them. 

In that moment, he knows. 

Holding the shield, trying to tame the souls, he has no more energy to expend, no will left to direct her. 

She shatters his shield with the palm of her hand, his magic exploding like glass at her touch. Snarling, her eyes reflecting the foundries fires, she seizes him by the neck and drives the knife upwards, under his ribs. He gasps at impact, the words dying on his lips. His wand slips from his fingers, rolling away.

Jada does not stop. She withdraws the knife and stabs him again and again. Her arm blurs, Shepard grunting as she slams the knife into him repeatedly, tearing him open and spilling his life blood over his grasping fingers. 

The force of her blows drives them backwards, towards the screaming melted metal of the smelting pit. Eyes wild, teeth bared in a manic grin, Jada flips the knife, catching it so that she holds it over her head, the bloodied blade pointed down. 

She says nothing. No words of vengeance, no gloating. It’s all there in her eyes, her hatred like the fires of hell, anguished and ravenous. 

She stabs him once more, the force of her arm bursting the blade through his breastbone and into his wicked heart. He stills, impaled, quivering as he hands scramble uselessly for the knife protruding from his chest. 

Jada steps back, releasing him. He wavers, his expression shocked. She kicks him into the smelting pit and watches as his body falls, arms extended, mouth agape. He is swallowed with barely a disturbance, his body nearly instantly destroyed. 

She turns. Bellatrix and Harry have their wands trained on the unleashed souls, struggling to hold them. 

Her gaze drifts, searching. She finds Hermione and their eyes lock. 

Clutching her wounded shoulder, Hermione struggles to her feet. She reaches out a hand, her expression pleading. 

She feels me, Jada thinks. 

There is something comforting in that. It’s good to not be alone. In this moment of all moments. 

“I’m sorry,” she says.

There is nothing good in her, no purity left. She is ruined, a dark echo. Her potential is the murder on a knife blade, the intent of a killing curse. There’s no fairy tale ending for her, no riding off into the sunset. The woman she has bound to her will never be hers, not truly. She will pity her, she will mourn her. But she will never touch her, never desire her. She will never love her.

She has nothing left, no purpose. 

Except...perhaps one. 

To become something else. Someone else. 

Holding her breath, she steps into the mass of howling souls, let’s herself be consumed. 

The reaction is instantaneous. 

Jada is lifted from her feet, held immobile in the air. Her head snaps back and the souls converge on her, pour into her open mouth, their screams furious, tormented. They pour into her, fill her, consume every piece that is her. There is a pause, a moment of quiet, and the rebirth begins, a reformation on a fundamental level. 

Still linked with Jada, Hermione is forced to the floor, her back arching to near snapping, her fingernails breaking off against the floor as she struggles, clings to her mortal body. 

And then it is done. Jada falls to the floor, Hermione unbending and collapsing a few feet away. 

Stillness, only the heat and sound of the foundry around them. 

Harry and Bellatrix stare at the destruction around them, at the two women on the ground. They are stunned, motionless. 

Hermione is the first to move. She twitches into consciousness, raising herself onto her elbows with a cry of pain. Her frantic eyes are quick to find Jada. She crawls towards her, reaching for her. She collapses next to her. She raises shaky, bloody fingers and touches her face. 

Watching, Bellatrix’s heart breaks. It shatters without a sound, but the intensity, the raw, painful twist of it nearly bows her, nearly kills her where she stands. 

Jada’s eyes open. They have changed. They are both blue, as blue as crisp winter sky. She looks into Hermione’s face and she smiles. 

“Are we alive?” she asks. 

Hermione groans. “I feel like I’m dead, so yes, I would say we’re still alive.” 

“Well shit.” 

They laugh, weakly. 

Harry takes a step forward. “Hermione.” 

“Harry,” she says, rolling onto her back. 

“What the fuck?” 

She lets out an unsteady breath. “It’s a long, long story.” 

Jada groans as she sits up. Placing the flat of her palms on the floor, she pushes herself to her feet. She twists her neck, the bones popping. She rolls her shoulders, joints cracking. She looks down at her hands and there is golden magic curling around her fingers. 

She gives a giddy laugh, flexing her fingers. “This feels...incredible.” 

Harry watches her, wary. His fingers are tight around his wand. “What’s happened?” 

Jada looks at him. A smile breaks across her face. 

“She has consumed the souls,” Bellatrix says. Her eyes are on Jada, watchful. “The magic the other one was shouting was a binding spell. The souls were meant for someone else. But she has taken them for herself.” 

Jada beams. “You know, I still hate your guts, but I can admire your intelligence.” 

“She’s dangerous,” Bellatrix says, meeting her bright eyes. “A powerful, dangerous maniac.” 

“Hurtful,” Jada pouts. 

Bellatrix grins, all teeth and sharp, black eyes. “I don’t care what you’re packing, I’m going to strangle you with your own fucking guts.” 

“You’re forgetting one thing. That vial in your hand? You touch me and our lovely little mudblood gets everything you give me. I’m sure you’re accustomed to giving her quite a bit, but perhaps not that much.” 

Bellatrix looks down at the sun vial in her hand. 

“But,” Jada says. “That doesn’t stop me.” 

Jada is fast, but Bellatrix is just as quick. 

Bellatrix slashes her wand and ice erupts from the ground, putting a barrier between herself and Jada. She jumps back, adding distance. She watches as Jada launches forwards in a twist of black smoke. She reforms effortlessly, staring down at her hands with a violent glee. 

“I could really get used to this,” she says. 

“We can’t touch her,” Harry whispers, moving to stand at Bellatrix’s side. “We’ll kill Hermione.” 

Bella’s eyes burn. 

Jada giggles. She kneels, running her fingers over the floor. She gives it an experimental tap, cocking her head to listen. Balling her fist, she slams it down. 

It’s like an earthquake. The foundry floor shatters and splits open with a monstrous roar, throwing Bellatrix and Harry from their feet. Vines burst from the gaps created by Jada’s magic. They are black, bleeding sap the color of blood as they scramble along the floor, wrapping themselves around Bella and Harry’s legs. 

Harry blasts a vine, kicking his leg free. Only to be seized again, his face slammed into the floor, shattering his spectacles. 

Delighted, Jada laughs. She thrusts her hands towards the sky, pulling at with her fingers as if she could bring down the very heavens. There’s a scream of smashing, melting metal and the ceiling of the foundry buckles, crashing open, spewing fire and rock.

Hermione dashes forward, leaning down to scoop Shepard’s forgotten wand as she runs. She throws herself forward, leaping across the jagged gap in the floor. She lands with a shout, her wounded shoulder colliding with the concrete. She bites through the pain, frantic as she scrambles to Harry and Bella’s sides. She is not a moment too soon, throwing a shield over them as the fire rains down, whistling and hissing against her magic.

Jada scowls. She walks through the fire, untouched by the flames. She towers over the trio, her eyes terrible and furious as she looks down at them. 

“What are you doing?” she asks, her voice nearly lost in the sound of chaos around them.

Hermione’s arm bends against the force of the onslaught. She struggles to hold the shield, sweat breaking out against her neck, rolling over her collarbones. 

“I won’t let you hurt them!” she shouts over the fire. 

“Is that so?” Jada sneers. She slaps her hand against the shield, much like she had her father’s not long before. 

But Hermione’s magic holds. 

“You can’t stay like this forever,” Jada taunts. 

Hermione says nothing, funneling her focus. Behind her, the vines tighten around Harry and Bellatrix, reaching for their throats. 

“Why?” Jada screams. She paces outside the shield, her ire burning hotter than the fire raining down from the sky. “Why her? Why do you fight for her?” 

“Because I love her,” Hermione says. “I will kill us both before I let you harm her.” 

Jada falters, her expression losing it’s fierce scowl, slipping into pain. “You choose her.” 

Hermione tastes blood, feels her magic weakening. “I will always choose her.” 

The fire stops. The vines slither away with a whisper of wood and dark leaves. 

Hermione lets out a breath, the shield shimmering from existence. 

Jada meets her gaze, her eyes haunted. 

“This isn’t over,” she promises Hermione. “We will meet again. And when we do, I will destroy your precious love. Mark it and know it.” 

She turns. Without a backwards glance, she twists into a funnel of roiling black smoke, and it gone. 

Harry groans. “I think one of those bastards got me in my man bits.” 

“Hermione.” Bella’s eyes are on her, a burning intensity to them. She holds out the blood vial. “I thought -” 

“Love potion,” Hermione explains, taking the vial. “She's a horcrux. Most of what she has done has been her father’s will. The man she killed. It’s his doing. He did that to her.” 

“Fuck,” Harry breathes. "She didn't..." 

Hermione shakes her head. "The potion was her brilliant idea to ensure I submitted to the blood pact. And to make it stronger. There's nothing stronger than love, after all." 

"But it's false love," Harry says. 

“That wicked bitch," Bellatrix growls.

Hermione nods. She gazes down at the sun vial. “How can we destroy this thing?” 

“It’s unbreakable,” Bellatrix says. 

“There has to be a way,” Harry says. “Otherwise we can’t touch her.” 

Bellatrix sighs. She looks at Hermione. Leaning over, she grabs her collar, bringing their faces together. 

She kisses her like it’s the last time. She kisses her like she will never see her again. She kisses her like she is the sun and the moon and the stars. 

She kisses her like she loves her. 

Hermione lets out a breath as they pull apart, her eyes still closed. 

“I’m really glad you didn’t die,” she says. 

Bellatrix smiles. “You, too.” 

“Aww, my heart,” Harry says. “You’re breaking it in two.” 

Leaning into one another, Bellatrix and Hermione stand. Bella reaches down, hauling Harry up by his collar. 

“Come on, let’s get you back to my nephew.” 

“Ah, yes. I can’t wait to be smacked across the bum and called a whiny bitch. Off we go.” 

Snickering, they tangle together and Disapparate, leaving the destruction of the night behind them, the foundry roaring and spewing molten metal, orange flames reflecting off of the broken soul jars.


	12. Chapter 12

There really is such a thing as too much talking. 

Or so Bellatrix thinks as she seethes in a corner and watches Potter and Hermione speak with Andromeda, the three of them clustered together like excited hens. Their fingers point and jab at the books spread over the table, their voices interchanging between hushed and loud. But it is Hermione Bella watches. 

A month has passed since their run in with Jada in the foundry. Hermione’s body has healed, but whatever troubles her mind is still very much raw. She avoids Bella at every turn, never quite meeting her eyes, slipping away from her touch with a tightening of her jaw. She speaks only in clipped tones, a coldness in her eyes.

_I will always choose her,_ she told Jada. 

As long as she lives, Bellatrix will never forget those words. They will echo inside her forever, feeding the thick blood that rushes through her heart. 

It was like...completion. The end of a lifelong search. The spark that started a new universe. She feels it so deep that it nearly ruins her with the knowledge of it. Because she knows she is bound to lose. It’s too right, feels too good, the way the thought of her swirls over her skin, lingers with the sharp taste of citrus on her tongue. How could you survive losing that? Cast from the warmth of the sun, breathing thick air and memories laced with regret. Like a dead astronaut floating through the stars; the lights of worlds burning below, all that history and life, but you alone, forgotten, an empty suit where a soul used to burn. Never again to know warmth, to know the comfort of touch. 

And so, Potter rubbing his palms into his eyes, Hermione shrugging into her coat with a frown creasing her brows, Bellatrix makes a decision. 

She catches Hermione’s hand in her own and spins, drawing her up the stairs to her room, ignoring the shocked looks Potter and Andromeda exchange. 

She slams the door and pushes her up against it. She holds her still and looks into her eyes. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” Hermione snarls, struggling. 

Bellatrix holds her firm with her hands on her shoulders, her expression unimpressed. “You are going to talk to me.” 

Hermione’s eyes flare, her mouth hardening, her spine going rigid with anger. “How dare you!” 

“Oh, I dare, pet,” Bellatrix says. She touches her throat, feels her swallow against her palm. “You don’t get to say you love me and scamper away at the sight of my shadow. I’ve been patient. But tonight, I’m not feeling particularly generous.” 

“Love you?” Hermione spits. “I don’t love you. I hate you.” 

It shouldn’t hurt, but it does. It’s like a fist straight to her heart, gripping until the slick organ pulps, explodes.

“Oh, you hate me?” 

“Yes!” she shouts. “I hate your face and your voice and the way you smell and the way you laugh. I hate the way you make me feel. I hate that _she_ can feel what you make me feel.” 

Bellatrix had suspected as much. She understands. She smooths her hand over Hermione’s cheek, brushing away a scalding tear with her thumb. 

“I hate feeling out of control,” Hermione says, her face twisting. “I hate loving you. I want you so much that it hurts. I almost forget myself when I look at you. I forget who you are. What we are together.” 

“And what is that?” 

“Chaos.” 

A beat and Bellatrix takes a breath. “I can barely sleep without you," she tells her. "And when I do, I dream of you. I wake up and you’re already on my mind. You’re the first thing I think of every day and the last thing I remember when I close my eyes at night. Do you think you’re alone?” 

Hermione’s eyes are on hers, her lips parted. “Sometimes I feel like I don’t exist. I feel like a ghost trapped between the bricks in the walls. I feel like someone else’s creation, a fiction living only in ink and fantasies.” 

Bella touches her lips. “You’re real to me.” 

Nothing else really matters then, does it? 

Hermione kisses her hard, biting her lip until Bella shoves her back, her eyes feral. There’s a darkness there, and it reaches for her, twists around her fingers, fills her mind with fire. 

Hermione can’t stand it, this desperation, this pull that drags her knees. She is nothing but desire and an aching soul. She is nothing outside the lines she has drawn for herself. She is not brave. She is not worthy. 

But she wants her. She wants to love her, she wants fuck her, she wants to own her. She wants to be known by her. She wants to trace all her lines, everything that makes her herself, every little jagged line of humanity etched across her fluttering heart.

She _needs_ so fiercely that it’s like dying, a final cold gasp on blue lips. Only to be reborn anew, in an image of her own design; all the darkness and the light that equals her total spinning out of control, ending in a new form, white electricity spitting between her edges and corners, lighting up the darkness in her heart. 

Bellatrix sees her. She sees her sum, the savage beauty in her imperfections. She sees her fear and her shame, her anger and her love. All of it sharp on her tongue, beating loudly in the palms of her hands. 

“Take a chance,” she tells Hermione. “I told you there is nothing that you can give that I can’t take. It’s true. There’s no one but you, Hermione. You and I and what we create. Can’t that be enough?” 

It is. 

Two steps and they stand against one another. There is fire between their skin and it blazes out of control, a writhing inferno of everything they won’t say. 

But it’s all there between them, unspoken but known, a sure acknowledgement of mutual respect among equals. 

Hermione slides her hands along Bella’s neck, her fingers drinking her in like rain mist on an open flower. She touches her lips, curves her knuckles along her cheek. She dedicates her to memory, as if she will never see her again, her movements careless as she pulls away her clothes. She etches her into her mind, burns her into her very soul; the line of her neck, the curve of her hips. The roughness of her palms, the smooth dimples of her smile. That wild spirit shining in her eyes. The curvature of her lips, the bottom fuller, so kissable that it makes her stomach clench just to think of it between her teeth; the upper a perfect symmetry that would make a sculptor ache for rapture. The way her breath catches when she touches her, the way her skin burns under her fingertips as she wanders, discovering new pieces of her, conquering her until she is as known to her as her own body.

There’s a terrible power in that kind of desire. It’s a drug, more addictive than chocolate laced with heroin. She knows with hard certainty that she would give up her life for this woman. She would move worlds for her. She would sit at her feet and worship until her nose bled and her mind lost meaning. She would sacrifice herself a piece at a time, if only for her favor, for the taste of her tongue and the feeling of her skin pressed against her, as close together as they can get. 

More than that, she wants her to know, the sheer, frightening intensity of what builds inside of her. She wants her to feel what she’s feeling, every ache, every surge of pleasure, every whisper of desire clinging to her tongue.

So she shows her, in the best way she knows how. 

She shoves her back against the wall and tastes her mouth. She pulls her legs up around her hips and presses her face against her neck, biting her until she feels her fingernails drawing pain and lust and everything in between up her back. She drops her hand and finds her ready and she fucks her. 

They move together with ease, with the kind of fluidity that comes from intimacy, from private knowledge extended only to the sweetest of lips. They go slow and then with urgency, pain and pleasure igniting with the roughness of their motions. It’s reckless, this kind of abandon, but it feels too good and they wouldn’t have it any other way. 

So, flushed and sweating, their mouths locked together, they search for that crest, that stomach twist that precedes ecstasy. They are high up and they almost don’t want to come down, everything sharper and more clear from that height. 

But even gods fall, and being mortal, Hermione and Bella fall harder, for each other, for the idea of what they can be together. They lose sense and breath and time, caught in amber, a manifestation of pure poetry between mind and body. 

They come back with an exhale and the room is suddenly very cold, dimmer from the lack of their light. 

They are nearly numb as they fall to the bed, gravitating towards one another under the sheets. They are burned out, wasted, blackened by fire and too much sensation. 

They don’t speak. Their eyes catch, the lines of their stomachs pressed together, sharing air and unspoken words. It’s only a blink and they are gone and dreaming, seeing only each other in the ghostly flickers behind their eyelids.


	13. Chapter 13

There is something to be said for new beginnings; they fucking suck. 

High in the air, Jada dangles her feet over the edge of a cliff and tilts her face to the sun. She drinks it in, holding it close to herself, allowing it to flicker inside of her. She lets out a deep breath, gripping the rocks below her with her fingertips. The edges are sharp against her skin, blistering with heat. 

“Ahem.” 

She doesn’t open her eyes. 

A shuffle, a good leather shoe nearly losing balance on the loose rocks. 

“A-AHEM.” 

“Cough one more time and I will throw you cunt first over this cliff,” Jada warns. 

“I haven’t a cunt and I resent the implication,” the cougher snaps. 

She smirks. “Oh, you resent it?” 

“I do, yes.” 

“Hm.” She considers curling her fist, crushing him into a cube of bone and blood and shattered teeth. But, today of all days, her mood is fine and the weather is gorgeous and she feels very generous. 

“You have it?” she asks. 

Another shift, an impatient sigh. “I’m here, aren’t I?” 

A note shifts inside her, a flash of heat, a dark snap of anger. “Put it down.” 

“Not until you give me my due.” 

“Eager, aren’t you?” 

Silence. 

Letting loose a long suffering sigh, Jada opens her eyes and pushes herself to her feet. She turns, finds herself looking down at a glaring little man with pale eyes and an air of inferiority about him. He smells like shoe polish and failed dreams. He looks like just the right amount of distraction. 

Her smile is sharp, her eyes flat. She glances at the long wooden box in his arms and shows her palms. 

“You think me dishonest?” 

His arms curl tighter about the box. “I think nothing.” 

Her lip curls. “Obviously.” 

He quivers, his upper lip gleaming with sweat. There is anger in his eyes and it is sweeter than milk and honey dripped over the tip of her tongue. 

“It’s there,” Jada says, pointing. 

His eyes dart, following her gesture.

Perched on a rock, overlooking the hard earth valley below, sits a stained skull. It looks like any other skull, no more unique or interesting or even horrifying. But were you to step closer, you would feel it, like dark light in the air, a hard electric tingle up the back of your neck, a painful twist in your gut. 

The little man licks his lips, his tongue quick and grey. He lets out a shaky breath. “His?” 

Smiling like a showman standing before caged lions, Jada urges him forward. “Can’t you feel it?” 

He edges forward, Adam's apple bobbing. “I - yes, I can feel it!” 

“Step closer.” 

He does. 

Not being entirely unkind, Jada gives him a moment. She watches his face closely, the corners of his mouth twisting, his chin trembling, the whites of his eyes bleached in the hot sun. She sees his rapture, his avarice, his need. His desperation to touch something great, to hack with his little hands until he carves out a piece of it for himself, stealing glory like a secondhand coat. 

And so she doesn’t feel a bit bad about shoving him off the cliff. 

Well, shoving would be gentle by comparison. The reality is much harsher, much more satisfying. 

He doesn’t resist her as she takes the polished box from his arms. He doesn’t startle when she lays a gentle hand on his shoulder. He hardly notices as she takes his elbow, staring so deeply into the bottomless eye sockets of a dead Lord. 

She can’t help herself, really. It’s an appetite, a desire to push boundaries, to smash them. To disregard them. To be above them, above everything and anything but her own will. She is her own god, her own creator. There is no debt owed except to the hunger that burns in her darkest heart. 

His skin is slick with sweat as she wraps her hands around his neck. He gives a startled croak, but it’s too late, he’s standing on the edge of the cliff, his arms flailing backwards, acutely aware of the marked emptiness at his back. 

Looking into his eyes, Jada tightens her hands until she can feel the bones of his neck like fragile glass pressing into her palms. 

“It’s not the dying that’s difficult,” she says, squeezing. “It’s the not knowing. The uncertainty. Are you really a soul? Or are you a collection of chemicals and measured responses divided up neatly inside a fleshy meat sack? Are you truly intelligent, or is all of this a simulation manufactured by your brain to keep you placid because the truth, the awfulness of reality, is too terrible to contemplate?” 

He chokes, his face turning purple. He claws at her hands, writhes against the empty air. 

“Self awareness,” she continues, watching the blood vessels burst in his eyes. “That’s the real cruelty, isn’t it? We know from the moment we are born that we are meant to die. Every second marking you closer to an inevitable end. It’s enough to drive anyone mad, that kind of knowledge. Hence religion. Hence love. All comfort to tide you over until that final, cold journey. We think we have a purpose, but really, we're just an evolutionary miscalculation.” 

He is fading too quickly. She loosens her grip and he gasps breath, his throat whistling, his eyes wild. 

“I won’t lie to you,” she says, throttling him with the care of a lover. “You are going to die today. You are going to be terrified. Don’t fight it. Embrace it. Open your arms to the void. And save me a seat down under, won’t you?” 

His fall is unspectacular. One moment he is there, a tangible sweating creature. The next, she opens her hands and there is but a single flash of awareness in his panicked eyes. He overbalances and he is gone. She doesn’t watch him fall. She has already forgotten him, banished him to a place worse than death; a grey ether were there is no taste, no smell, no touch. He simply does not exist. As far as the world at large remembers, he never did. 

But the box…

Inside is a broken spear. It is very old, the snapped handle wrapped in leather, the wood smooth from hundreds of hands that have held it, conquered nations with it, ended lives and made mourners of thousands. But the head, the wicked tip, is gold and glowing. She touches her finger to it and it draws her blood easily, cleanly. 

Always, she has felt in a permanent state of waiting. On the cusp of something, but not quite able to reach. This uncertainty, this condition of incompletion has bred within her an appetite for pain, a hunger for discomfort. It is the only thing that brings her pleasure. The only thing to ground her, to make her transparent body flesh. And this, shoved into the heart of the only woman she will ever love, will hurt her very much. It will be her masterpiece, her inglorious magnum opus. It will be poetic and beautiful, all the more so for the agony it will wreak. 

There is no emotion quite like it, nothing as visceral and true. It binds all things together. Love is pain; rage is an aching bent to the mind - happiness when lost is like agony. Sadness, that bone deep melancholy that shreds, that numbs and bleeds and makes you less. All of it threaded together by that common core, that blissful wake of pain. 

It is the true cleaner, the only divinity that matters. 

She smiles and takes Voldemort’s skull in her hand. She gives it a brisk kiss on the teeth and smiles. 

“To die, to sleep - to sleep, perchance to dream - aye, there’s the rub, for in this sleep of death what dreams may come.” 

She shatters his skull under her boot and she is gone, leaving the fragments of a dead man behind, quickly covered by windblown sand as the sun slips behind clouds, casting the valley in darkness.


End file.
